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Title: Blue trousers
Being the fourth part of 'The tale of Genji'
Author: Murasaki Shikibu
Translator: Arthur Waley
Release date: December 5, 2025 [eBook #77408]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1928
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLUE TROUSERS ***
BLUE TROUSERS
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
THE TALE OF GENJI
Part I (Chapters 1 to 9)
THE SACRED TREE
Part II (Chapters 10 to 18) of “The
Tale of Genji”
A WREATH OF CLOUD
Part III (Chapters 19 to 28) of “The
Tale of Genji”
BLUE TROUSERS
Part IV (Chapters 29 to 40) of “The
Tale of Genji.”
BLUE TROUSERS
BEING THE FOURTH PART OF “THE TALE OF GENJI”
BY
LADY MURASAKI
Translated from the Japanese by
ARTHUR WALEY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
1928
_All rights reserved_
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY UNWIN BROTHERS, LTD., WOKING
TO
R. C. TREVELYAN
CONTENTS
PAGE
LIST OF MOST IMPORTANT PERSONS 9
SITUATION AT THE BEGINNING OF VOLUME IV 11
CHAPTER
I. THE ROYAL VISIT 13
II. BLUE TROUSERS 40
III. MAKIBASHIRA 48
IV. THE SPRAY OF PLUM-BLOSSOM 90
V. FUJI NO URABA 105
VI. WAKANA, PART I 128
VII. WAKANA, PART II 182
VIII. KASHIWAGI 230
IX. THE FLUTE 252
X. YŪGIRI 267
XI. THE LAW 309
XII. MIRAGE 321
LIST OF MOST IMPORTANT PERSONS
Akashi, Lady of Brought back by Genji from his place of
exile.
Akashi, Princess Daughter of the above.
Akikonomu Daughter of Rokujō. Consort of the
Emperor Ryōzen.
Aoi Genji’s first wife. Her death is
recorded at the end of Vol. I.
Asagao, Princess Courted by Genji.
Chūjō, Lady Daughter of Tō no Chūjō. Concubine
of the Emperor Ryōzen.
Chūjō no Omoto Maid in service of Higekuro.
Crown Prince, The Son of Suzaku. Afterward ascends
the Throne. ‘The New Emperor’.
Emperor, The New See _Crown Prince_.
Falling Flowers A mild and patient lady, entrusted with
Lady from the Village of. Yūgiri’s upbringing.
Fujitsubo Genji’s stepmother. Secretly loved
by him.
Genji The hero.
Higekuro Husband to Makibashira, who goes
mad. Subsequently marries Tamakatsura.
Hyōbukyō, Prince Murasaki’s father.
Jōkyōden, Princess Consort of Suzaku.
Kaoru Son of Nyosan and Kashiwagi. Supposed
by the world to be Genji’s son.
Kashiwagi Son of Tō no Chūjō. In love with
Nyosan.
Kōbai Kashiwagi’s brother.
Kojijū Maid to Nyosan.
Koremitsu Genji’s favourite retainer.
Koremitsu’s Daughter ‘The Gosechi dancer.’ Yūgiri takes
a fancy to her at the time when he
cannot get access to Kumoi.
Kumoi Tō no Chūjō’s daughter. Yūgiri’s wife;
Makibashira Higekuro’s mad wife.
Moku no Kimi Maid in service of Higekuro.
Murasaki Genji’s wife. The low rank of her mother
prevented her ever being installed as
_kita no kata_ or ‘legitimate spouse.’
Niou Son of the New Emperor and the Akashi
Princess. Genji’s grandson.
Nishi no Miya Murasaki’s eldest sister.
Nyosan Favourite daughter of the ex-Emperor
Suzaku. Accepted by Genji as his
_kita no kata_, in deference to Suzaku’s
wishes. Loved by Kashiwagi.
Oborozuki Consort of Suzaku. Formerly loved by Genji.
Ochiba Daughter of Suzaku. Married to Kashiwagi;
after his death, loved by Yūgiri.
Omi, Lady from Illegitimate daughter of Tō no Chūjō.
Omiya, Princess Tō no Chūjō’s mother. Yūgiri’s maternal
grandmother.
Rokujō, Lady Loved by Genji in his early days.
Violently jealous of his other attendants.
Ryōzen, Emperor Thought by the world to be the son of the
Old Emperor (Genji’s father); but in
reality son of Genji and the Old Emperor’s
consort, Lady Fujitsubo.
Saishō Maid to Tamakatsura.
Sochi, Prince Genji’s half-brother.
Suzaku, Ex-Emperor Genji’s half-brother. Father of Nyosan and
Ochiba.
Tamakatsura Daughter of Tō no Chūjō and Yūgao. Adopted
by Genji.
Tō no Chūjō Genji’s great friend. Brother of Genji’s
first wife, Aoi.
Yamato, Governor of Nephew of Ochiba’s mother.
Yūgao Loved by Genji in his youth. Withered by
Rokujō’s jealousy. Dies in the deserted
mansion (_see_ vol. i, chap. iv).
Yūgiri Genji’s son by Aoi.
SITUATION AT THE BEGINNING OF
VOLUME IV
Genji has decided to find a husband for his ward Tamakatsura, though he
longs to keep her for himself. Yūgiri (Genji’s son) is still in love
with Kumoi (Tō no Chūjō’s daughter); but Tō no Chūjō is more ambitious
on her behalf, and would like to establish her in the Emperor’s Palace.
Genji is hurt by this slight upon Yūgiri, and there is an estrangement
between Genji and Tō no Chūjō.
BLUE TROUSERS
CHAPTER I
THE ROYAL VISIT
Genji’s mind was still occupied with the question of Tamakatsura’s
future. He was, as he put it to himself, exploring various
possibilities—honestly endeavouring to discover a plan that would
ensure her happiness. But meanwhile the girl’s reputation had, true to
Murasaki’s prediction, already begun to suffer. The fact that rumours
connecting Genji’s name with hers were now generally current made his
situation with regard to her true father more than ever embarrassing.
Where other people’s conduct was concerned Tō no Chūjō’s standards were
singularly exacting. The moment he heard that the subject of all this
gossip was his own daughter, Chūjō’s moral indignation would know no
bounds, and he would certainly not consider it any part of his duty
to save Genji’s face or lighten the consequences of his equivocal
behaviour. Was it, Genji now began to ask himself, of any advantage
either to the girl or her father that their relationship should be
disclosed? Far better, surely, to find her a suitable husband as soon
as possible, or best of all, induce the Emperor to admit her into the
Palace.
This year the Emperor was to take part in the Ōharano Festival.[1]
People came from all over the country to witness the ceremony, and the
sightseers included several parties from the New Palace.[2] The
Procession left the Suzaku gate at the hour of the Hare,[3] turning
to the right when it reached the Great Highway of the Fifth Ward. All
through the town, and beyond it as far as the Katsura river, the road
was thickly lined by coaches. The procession was, strictly speaking,
an Imperial Progress; but on this occasion the Palanquin was followed
by most of the younger princes and noblemen, on horses sumptuously
saddled and equipped. Their retainers, also on horseback, were all
men of fine stature and appearance, clad in magnificent costumes, so
that the general effect was one of extraordinary splendour. All the
great Ministers of State were there, from the Ministers of the Right
and Left, the Palace Minister and Chancellors downwards. Even the
lower officers, including those of the Sixth Rank, were as a special
privilege allowed to wear the dove-grey cloak and wine-red tunic. There
had been a slight fall of snow, but during the time of the procession
the weather was perfect. Such of the courtiers as had been taking
part in the recent hunting expeditions were still in their strange
falconers’ costumes. They were attended by the hawk-trainers drawn
from the falconries of the Six Bodyguards. These men, in their rather
wild-looking, patterned dresses, quite unfamiliar to most residents
of the Capital, attracted a great deal of attention. Though there was
much in the proceedings that lay outside the scope of what young ladies
are supposed to understand, the mere interest and beauty of the sight
brought them to the scene in their thousands, and it was touching to
observe how many crazy, tottering conveyances just managed to creak
and lumber to the spot in time to see the procession pass. The most
fashionable view-point was just before the Bridge of Boats. Here the
really smart equipages were seen in greatest abundance; among them,
that of Lady Tamakatsura. It was of course towards the open window of
the Emperor’s Palanquin that she at once turned a fascinated gaze.
Clad in a bright scarlet cloak, he sat motionless, not for an instant
turning his young face to right or left. Never in her life had she seen
so many handsome faces and fine clothes; but the Emperor could hold
his own. She could not help casting a secret glance towards her father
as he rode by with the other Ministers. He was a finely built man, and
wore an air of vigour and enterprise that marked him out from among
all the other commoners in the train. But it was not for long that
she diverted her gaze from the scarlet-robed figure in the Palanquin.
As for such or such a young prince whose conversation or appearance
she had heard praised, this or that chamberlain or courtier who had
plied her with love letters—though her friends kept pointing them out,
she did not pay the slightest attention, but continued to gaze at the
figure in the red cloak, who was not only her Sovereign, but also the
handsomest young man in all the throng. In cast of countenance he was,
she thought, extraordinarily like Prince Genji, though the august
position which he held had given to these same features a sternness, an
imperturbable dignity very different from the habitual expression of
her guardian’s face.
By the lesser figures in the procession she was, she must needs
confess, very much disappointed. Used to Genji and Yūgiri, she had
fallen into the habit of supposing that beauty was the common property
of all well-born gentlemen; and it was with some consternation that
she to-day encountered such chins and noses as she could scarcely
believe to be varieties of the organs with which she was familiar. She
recognized Prince Hyōbukyō[4]; and also her own suitor Prince Higekuro,
who, though not usually very particular about his appearance, was
to-day quite smart in his guardsman’s dress, with a stylish Persian
quiver across his shoulders. He was dark-skinned and very hairy. This
disgusted her, though she knew that men cannot be expected to have
faces as smooth and complexions as delicately graded as those of a lady
fresh from her toilet-table. No doubt she was unreasonable; but she
could not help it. Argue with herself as she might, the appearance of
such people as Prince Higekuro distressed her. Her thoughts went back
to the Emperor. Genji had spoken lately about the possibility of her
being summoned to the Palace. She did not want to become the Emperor’s
concubine. That kind of thing did not appeal to her; moreover she did
not think herself sufficiently presentable, and could not imagine that
she would ever stand a chance of being chosen for such a purpose. But
to be attached to the Palace in some general capacity, and if not
actually to enjoy the Emperor’s friendship, at any rate often to see
him in a far less fleeting manner than she had done to-day—such a
notion pleased her, and henceforward her mind frequently dwelt upon it.
At last the procession arrived at Ōharano, the Palanquin halted, and a
great banquet was served in the Imperial Tent. While such of the guests
as had arrived in Court dress were changing into their cloaks and
hunting-jackets, a great hamper of wine and fruit arrived as a present
from the New Palace. The Emperor had expressed a wish that Genji should
be present at to-day’s proceedings; but he had excused himself, saying
the day fixed for the ceremony clashed with a religious observance[5]
which it was impossible for him to neglect. His majesty, upon the
receipt of Genji’s hamper, sent a lieutenant of the Guard back to the
New Palace with a return present of game—a dozen or so partridges
strung to the bough of a tree. With it was a prose message of the
usual kind, which I will not here reproduce, for the pronouncements
of Royalty on such occasions are not necessarily of great interest.
The Imperial Poem was as follows: ‘The tracks these woodland birds
imprinted on the snowy hill would guide you safely on the path that
Precedent decrees.’ By this he meant that the Grand Minister had never
before been absent on the occasion of the Royal Visit.
Genji entertained the messenger with suitable respect, and finally
sent him back with the poem: ‘So thick this morning’s snow that, where
I seek my way, no ancient track remains upon the wind-drifts of the
desolate hill.’[6] I have, as a matter of fact, heard a good deal more
of what took place on this occasion; but there are still several gaps
that I have not been able to fill in, and I shall therefore at present
say nothing further about it.
Next day Genji wrote a note to Tamakatsura in which he said: ‘How did
you get on yesterday? Were you able to see the procession properly?
I am sure that, if you were, you now take a very different view
about my recent proposal....’ She was at first amused by the notion
that a fleeting glimpse through the window of a palanquin could have
altered her decision about serving at the Palace. But after a moment’s
reflection she realized that this was precisely what had happened. How
clever he always was at guessing what went on in other people’s heads!
In reply she sent the poem: ‘How think you I could have seen the
Light of Heaven when snow-clouds dimmed the morning with their sullen
breath?’[7] Genji showed the letter to Murasaki, and explained the
situation. ‘I have been suggesting that she should apply for a post at
the Palace,’ he said. ‘But I am not sure that I could get her accepted.
You see, it was from my house that Lady Akikonomu entered the Imperial
service, and it might be thought that I was asking too much in trying
to establish a second ward of mine in a high position at the Palace.
Nothing would be gained if I restored her to her father; for he too
has already supplied His Majesty with a consort.[8] It is all very
difficult and confusing.... The Emperor is extremely attractive. Now
that she has seen him, were she only a few years younger and somewhat
less diffident about her own powers to please, she would not, I am
sure, rest content till she secured a footing in his household....’
‘How horrible you think everyone is,’ Murasaki answered, laughing.
‘Even if she admired the Emperor (and there is no reason to suppose
that she did), a girl such as she would never dream of putting herself
forward.... We women are really far less immodest than you suppose.’
‘Possibly,’ replied Genji. ‘But on the other hand the Emperor is far
handsomer than you suppose, as you will admit when you have seen him.’
Another difficulty was now beginning to present itself. So long as
she continued to live quietly in the New Palace the question of
Tamakatsura’s clan-rights was not likely to be raised. She would pass
as a member of the Minamoto, Genji’s own clan, and be admitted without
further scrutiny to the worship of his family gods. But supposing he
succeeded in getting her into the Palace in finding her a husband, it
would then be necessary to come into the open about which clan she
belonged to. He would, of course, if he intended to pass her off as his
own child, have to pretend that she was a Minamoto. If this only meant
depriving the Kasuga Deity[9] of a worshipper, it would not be of
much consequence. But there was always the risk that the true facts
might one day come to light, and then his own conduct towards those who
had accepted her at his hands would appear so discreditable that he
would never be able to face them again.
He knew of course that ordinary upper-class people changed over from
one clan to another without the slightest compunction; it was, indeed,
rather a fashionable thing to do so....
No, it was no use arguing in this way. Such adoptions did not alter the
facts of the case. Tamakatsura was not his child, but Tō no Chūjō’s.
Sooner or later her father would become aware of this, and that being
so it was far better that he should learn the truth from Genji’s own
lips. He accordingly wrote to Tō no Chūjō, and without giving any
explanation asked him to be sponsor[10] for the girl at the long
deferred ceremony of her Initiation, which was fixed for the second
month of the new year.
The old Princess, Tō no Chūjō’s mother, had been very unwell all the
winter, and though custom demanded that, if Tō no Chūjō were sponsor,
the ceremony should take place in her house, Genji feared that this
would be putting her to too much inconvenience. He noticed that Yūgiri,
who was constantly with her, looked more and more careworn every day.
This was a bad sign; probably the old lady would not last out many
weeks more. But if she died before his intended conversation with
Tō no Chūjō had taken place, Tamakatsura would not be able to wear
mourning for her, and would thus, through no fault of her own,
be guilty of a serious offence. Accordingly he set out for the Third
Ward, calling first at the old Princess’s apartments. He was obliged
to act with great secrecy, for he had pleaded only yesterday that a
religious obligation confined him to his rooms. But lest she should be
disappointed, he robed himself for the visit quite as magnificently
as he would have done for the recent Procession. Her joy at the sight
of this dazzling spectacle knew no bounds. Ill though she was, she
immediately cast away all her troubles, dragged herself from her couch
and received him, propped up on an easy chair.
She was evidently very much enfeebled; but she was perfectly well
able to carry on a conversation. ‘I always know how things are going
here by watching Yūgiri,’ Genji said to her. ‘Lately he has been very
absent-minded and depressed, and sometimes I have heard him sighing
heavily when he was by himself. I knew this meant that he was worrying
about you, and I felt I must come and enquire on my own account.
Nowadays I do not even visit at the Palace except on very special
occasions. I still hold the position of Grand Minister; but you would
not find a single business document on my table. I live shut away in
my own house, and am quite out of touch with everything that goes on
in the outside world. You probably think it very reprehensible of me
to withdraw from all public responsibilities at so early an age; and
I know that you could quote to me cases, both ancient and modern, of
indomitable old men who have gone on tottering to their government
offices every day of their lives till their backs were bent double. If
I do not manage to supply the world with so edifying a spectacle, it
is partly because I feel myself wholly lacking in capacity for such
matters, partly because I am by nature incurably indolent....’ ‘You’re
only making excuses because it’s a very long time since you have
been to see me,’ she answered. ‘Well, I haven’t been getting on so
badly. Till this year I had nothing to complain of, except the usual
inconveniences of old age. But now they have not much hope of me. I
have been wondering lately whether I should ever see you again. As a
matter of fact, I am better than usual to-day, and do not feel at all
as though my time were up. I have never thought there was much to be
said in favour of dragging on long after all one’s friends were dead,
and for my part I was ready and anxious to be gone. If I have hung on
till now, it has really been chiefly because of Yūgiri’s extraordinary
kindness and devotion. I can see that the idea of losing me upsets him
terribly....’ She cried a good deal while she spoke, and her voice was
so tremulous that he found it hard to catch her words; but the emotion
which lay behind her quavering and often incoherent phrases was always
such as he could most easily comprehend and share. In the course of
this conversation Genji said: ‘I suppose Tō no Chūjō comes to see you
several times a day? I should be glad to have a word with him, if
he looks in while I am here. There is something I have been wanting
to tell him about for a long time. I should be sorry to miss this
opportunity; for nowadays we seem very seldom to meet.’ ‘I don’t know
how it is,’ the old Princess replied; ‘it may be that he is very busy,
or it may be that he simply does not want to come. I can only tell you
that he has not been here once since my illness began. I wonder what
sort of thing it is you want to discuss with him? I wish he were not so
set against poor Yūgiri. I have said to him ever so many times: “It’s
no good arguing about how it all began. The harm is done now; they’ve
got themselves talked about, and if you go on keeping them apart, you
will only turn every one against you.” But once he gets an idea into
his head there is no doing anything with him. He was always the
same....’ Genji smiled at her assumption that whatever was to be said
must necessarily concern her darling Yūgiri. ‘I am afraid I was partly
to blame,’ he said. ‘I was led to suppose that Tō no Chūjō did not
regard the affair as worth his interference, and took the same line
myself. Afterwards, when I discovered how angry he was, I wished I had
not meddled in the matter at all.
‘However, that is not what I want to talk to him about now.... Some
while ago I happened quite by chance to discover the whereabouts of a
person in whose fate I imagine him to be deeply interested. I ought of
course to have spoken to him at once; but there were reasons that made
me very reluctant to go into the whole matter. A home had to be found
for her immediately, and having a very small family myself, I took her
into the New Palace, never intending this to be more than a temporary
measure.... I was seeing very little of Tō no Chūjō at this time, and
month after month went by without my having a chance to discuss the
matter with him, as I fully intended to do as soon as an opportunity
arose....
‘It now appears that the Emperor is looking for a Lady-of-the-Wardrobe.
The position has been allowed to remain vacant far too long, the work
being entrusted to mere housekeepers and lower servants, with the
result that everything is in a state of hopeless confusion. In old
days there seemed to be no difficulty in filling the post. All that is
required is a lady free from domestic ties, who is also of good birth
and tolerable character. But now, quite apart from birth and breeding,
it seems impossible to produce any one who even as regards previous
conduct and experience is in any way qualified for the position. Having
seen several applicants who came with the highest recommendations, the
Emperor decided that he must look for some one of quite a different
class.
‘I at once thought of Lady Tamakatsura, the girl whom I have taken
into my house. So far as I can make out, she is just the sort of person
his Majesty is looking for. Service at the Palace has, I know, usually
been regarded solely as an avenue to Imperial notice and favour, with
the result that the work of such offices as the Wardrobe has been
treated as something to scramble through with as little effort as
possible. But it is not intended that this shall continue, and Lady
Tamakatsura seems to me just the right person to put things upon a more
sensible footing.
‘However, I can do nothing till I have seen her father and talked
the matter over with him. I have already asked him to stand sponsor
at her Initiation, and now that you are feeling stronger I hope that
the ceremony will soon be able to take place at your house.’ ‘If I
understand you rightly,’ said the old lady, ‘this is some child of
Tō no Chūjō’s. Your story very much surprises me. He was rather wild
in his younger days; but he never failed to make provision for his
children, and, indeed, he has in his time collected some very queer
waifs and strays who succeeded in convincing him he was their father.
I think it is most unaccountable that, if this girl is really his
daughter, he should have completely lost touch with her and allowed you
to pass her oft as your child. What strange things you are telling me!
But now I come to think of it, there was some story that I heard years
ago....’
‘It may sound to you very improbable,’ he replied, ‘but all that I have
told you is true so far as it goes. I shall necessarily be telling Tō
no Chūjō a good deal more about it, and you can get the details from
him. It is a long and rather sordid story, and you would soon wish I
had not begun it. Even Yūgiri still knows nothing, and believes that
the girl is my daughter. You will not of course allow the matter to
go any further.’ So he cautioned her. Meanwhile Tō no Chūjō heard
that Prince Genji was at his mother’s house. ‘Of course my mother
will be delighted,’ said he, ‘but I wish he had let us know that he
was coming. Only Yūgiri is with her.... It is most unfortunate. There
will be no one to receive him or see to it that his escort is properly
entertained.’ Much agitated, Tō no Chūjō began routing out such of his
own sons and of Genji’s particular acquaintance as could be procured
at such short notice, and sent them round post-haste to the old lady’s
apartments, begging them to make sure that the distinguished guest was
not being shamefully neglected. ‘The wine!’ he called after them. ‘Be
sure that he is offered wine and a little fruit. I would come with you
myself, were I not afraid of giving trouble....’
Just then a note from his mother was handed him. ‘Genji is here,’ she
said. ‘Of course I was delighted to see him. But I knew well enough
that he had not come merely to chatter with me. It now appears that he
counted on finding you here. There is something he wants to discuss
with you.’ It was quite clear what had happened. The Princess, thinking
that her end was near, had again been beseeching Genji to champion
Yūgiri’s cause. ‘He himself,’ thought Tō no Chūjō, ‘is probably tired
of seeing the boy moping about day after day with the same love-lorn
expression. He no doubt imagines that a word from him, preceded by a
little judicious flattery, will suffice to alter all my views. If more
is required, there is always the plea that, in her present condition,
my mother must at all costs be allowed to have her way. At this moment,
I suppose, they are putting their heads together and deciding how to
propitiate me ... under the circumstances it will be very difficult
not to give way; and yet I don’t at all see why I should!’ So he
havered, feeling very much irritated by the whole affair, and extremely
disinclined to obey the summons. But he valued civility very
highly, and he could not without great rudeness refuse his mother’s
invitation just on the one occasion when Genji was in the house. It
would be better not to put himself in the wrong.... It was evident,
indeed, that he had decided to go; for he began dressing in his
finest clothes, and soon afterwards he set out, with only a handful
of outriders, but accompanied by all the gentlemen of his household.
The party was an imposing one as it swept along, dominated by the
resplendent figure of Tō no Chūjō himself, who was noticeably taller
than the rest and broad-chested to match, fulfilling in dignity of mien
and gait all that the popular imagination expects of a great political
leader. He was magnificently dressed in long trousers of wine-red silk
and a lined cloak, white outside and red within, with a very long and
sumptuous train. His costume contrasted in the strangest manner with
that of Genji, who had changed into a plain cloak of Chinese silk
thrown about him with just that touch of negligence which is proper to
a great lord on a small occasion. But the contrast, which would have
put any one else at a disadvantage, only served to show that Genji
at his very shabbiest could hold his own against the most grandiose
display of trains and trappings.
The friendship of Tō no Chūjō’s sons with Yūgiri made it natural that
they should accompany their father on this visit. It happened that
Chūjō’s two younger brothers, sons of a different mother, holding now
the positions of Tutor to the Crown Prince and Representative of the
Fujiwara Family on the Grand Council, were also at hand; and though no
particular meeting of the Government had been called, circumstances
had obliged some ten or twelve of the great officers of State (the
Chief Treasurer, the Treasurer of the Fifth Rank, the Colonel of
the Bodyguard and others) to foregather in Tō no Chūjō’s house that
morning. They too, with a number of squires and commoners, joined
the throng, and it was an impressive concourse of courtiers and
gentlemen that was now entertained in the old Princess’s Reception
Hall. The great tankard went round again and again, every one became
very much elated, and scenes took place which (as was generally
observed) far exceeded in brilliance and gaiety what is usually
witnessed in an antiquated dowager’s apartments. Genji and Tō no Chūjō
were soon engaged in an animated conversation. When they were apart it
seemed to each that an exasperating accumulation of small grievances
was all that now remained of their ancient alliance. But from the
first moment of this unpremeditated and almost accidental meeting all
consciousness of these recent jars and irritations utterly vanished.
No sooner were they seated side by side than a host of common memories
crowded to the mind of each. What miseries they had suffered together,
what delights they had enjoyed! It seemed impossible that such trivial
incidents as those of the last few months could have sufficed to raise
a barrier between them. But so it had been; and for that very reason
there was more to talk about now than there could possibly else have
been. Enquiries, recollections, allusions followed hard upon one
another, and when dusk fell the two friends had still not come to a
pause in their conversation. At last Tō no Chūjō remembered that the
guest must be in need of refreshment, and handing him the tankard he
said: ‘It has for a long while past distressed me very much to see
so little of you; and I felt that it would indeed mark a disastrous
climax in our estrangement if you should come to-day without my being
here to receive you. I imagined that, had you not expressly desired
to avoid me, you would certainly have told me of your intended visit.
Fortunately, however, I decided that to come unwanted would endanger
our friendship less than to stay away when I knew that you were
honouring my mother’s house....’ ‘If any one has been endangering our
good relations, it is I,’ answered Genji. ‘Did you but know it, I stand
in need of all the charity and forbearance that you can muster.’[11]
Tō no Chūjō was puzzled by this; but he naturally assumed that it
referred to the trouble concerning Kumoi and Yūgiri, and certain
that something very disagreeable was coming, he waited for Genji to
continue. ‘In old days it was very seldom that we differed about
any matter of importance, whether it concerned our own lives or the
affairs of the country, and for this reason I felt perfectly confident
in handing over to you the direction of the Government. It seemed as
little likely that our views would clash as that a bird’s two wings
should start flying in different directions. If lately I may seem to
you sometimes to have acted in a way at variance with this old concord,
you cannot claim that it has been in matters of any wide or general
importance. But that is not enough; as I grow older I feel all the
more anxious that not even these small domestic difficulties should
continue to mar our friendship or in any way alter it from what it was
in earlier days. You seemed to avoid me; but I knew from experience
that the duties I myself had thrust upon you leave little time for
friendship, and had I been merely an acquaintance I should not have
been surprised at your becoming somewhat difficult of access. But
despite all that had arisen between us our relationship was merely of a
somewhat different kind....’
Tō no Chūjō had not the least idea what all this was going to lead up
to. ‘Certainly we were very intimate at one time,’ he answered. ‘It
is possible that I presumed too much upon our friendship—ignored too
completely the great distance that separated us. You have compared
us to the two wings of a bird. Such was never our position. You were
always far above me, and if I have risen from insignificance to high
rank and office I know quite well that it is entirely your doing.
Perhaps I ought more frequently to have acknowledged this obligation;
but as one grows older one tends more and more to take things for
granted....’ Tō no Chūjō, who had arrived in such ill-humour, was
now speaking almost apologetically. It was at this point that Genji
ventured upon an allusion to the rainy night’s conversation,[12] then
to Yūgao, and last to Tō no Chūjō’s little daughter, Tamakatsura. ‘I
have news concerning her which will very much surprise you,’ Genji said
at last, and, without going into the whole story, broke to Tō no Chūjō
the news that Yūgao was long ago dead, and that Tamakatsura had for
some while been living with him.
Tears sprang to Chūjō’s eyes. ‘I think that at the time when I first
lost sight of her,’ he said at last, ‘I told you and some of my other
friends about my endeavours to trace Yūgao and her child. It would have
been better not to speak of the matter; but I was so wretched that I
could not contain myself. However, the search brought no result, and
at last I gave up all hope. It was only recently, when my accession
to high office induced all kinds of odd and undesirable creatures in
every quarter to claim relationship with me, that I began to think
once more about this true child of mine. How much more gladly would
I have acknowledged and welcomed Yūgao’s daughter than the band of
discreditable and unconvincing claimants who henceforward thronged my
gates! But now that I know she is in good hands....’ Gradually the
conversation drifted back to that rainy night and to the theories which
each of them had then put forward. Had life refuted or confirmed
them? And so, between tears and laughter, the talk went on, with not a
shade of reproach or coolness on either side, till morning was almost
come. ‘I have no desire to go away,’ said Genji, rising at last. ‘The
things of which we have been speaking happened so long ago that they
are already ancient history, and I thought that they no longer much
concerned me. But this meeting of ours to-night has brought them back
out of the past, and....’ Perhaps it was partly because he had been
drinking (some special reason there must have been, for it was very
seldom indeed that he betrayed his emotion), Genji at this point broke
down completely and burst into a flood of tears.
Nor was he the only person in the house to weep that night. For the
old Princess, seeing Genji so far increased in dignities and power
since the time of Aoi’s death, could not help picturing to herself
the impression that the more consequential Genji of to-day would
undoubtedly have made upon her fastidious daughter. A year or two
longer, a little more experience on either side, and all might have
been well.
The matter of Yūgiri and Kumoi had not been so much as mentioned
during Tō no Chūjō’s visit. Genji was by no means anxious to start
the subject, for he knew that the girl’s family considered that he
had been remiss in not putting in a word for her at Court, and he
felt no inclination to defend himself; while Chūjō, not venturing to
embark upon a topic which Genji seemed deliberately to avoid, gave the
impression that upon this point he still harboured a grievance. ‘I
shall not escort you to your palace to-night,’ he said to Genji. ‘Our
joint cavalcades, suddenly let loose upon the sleeping town, would
cause an uncomfortable commotion. But next time we meet here we will
let it be known in advance that I am going to escort you....’
It now seemed certain that the old Princess would by the appointed
day be sufficiently recovered to allow of the Initiation[13] taking
place in her house. ‘On that occasion, if not before,’ said Genji, ‘we
may count on meeting again.’
It was noticed by the companions who waited for them that when Genji
and Tō no Chūjō at last reappeared they were both smiling with
evident satisfaction, as though some difficult negotiation had been
successfully arranged between them. What was it all about? With what
new powers could Tō no Chūjō have been invested? Many wild guesses were
made, nor would it have occurred to any one that politics had not once
been mentioned between them.
The news of Tamakatsura’s whereabouts came as such a shock to Tō no
Chūjō that he was at first quite unable to decide whether he was glad
or sorry at what had happened. Only one reason (not referred to by
Genji in his account of the affair) could possibly have induced him
to adopt the girl. Nothing had been said about restoring her to her
real father, and Tō no Chūjō was certain that under the circumstances
Genji would make every possible effort to avoid doing so. If he had not
openly accepted her as his concubine, it was through fear of Murasaki
and the rest. Certainly it was most unfortunate (the real situation
being such as Tō no Chūjō guessed) that Genji should have insisted upon
spreading this ridiculous report about the girl being his daughter.
After all, in the mere fact of his taking a fancy to her there was
nothing discreditable either to her or himself, and only this stupid
pretence would make the attachment, should it become known, seem in any
way reprehensible.
Should Genji decide to escape from his dilemma by presenting
Tamakatsura at Court, she might prove (thought Tō no Chūjō) a
formidable rival to his eldest daughter, who already had difficulties
enough at the Palace. But in any case, having now resumed his old
relations with Genji, he was determined to let no matter of this kind
endanger them, and was quite prepared to do whatever Genji seemed to
expect of him.
The reconciliation took place early in the second month. The 16th of
this month, being the first day of the Higan[14] Festival, seemed
particularly favourable for the holding of Tamakatsura’s Initiation
Ceremony. An inspection of the calendar showed that there would not
be another suitable day for a long time, and as the old Princess
maintained her improvement, there seemed a good chance that the
ceremony would be able to take place at her house on the 16th.
The next time Genji visited his ward he was able to inform her that he
had at last arranged the long-promised meeting with her father, and had
told him, if not the whole story, at any rate as much of it as it was
necessary for him to know. He seemed in the end to have chosen his time
so well, and managed the disclosure with so much tact, that she felt no
real father could possibly handle her affairs with more judgment and
devotion, and she had no desire to change her lot. But all the same
it was a weight off her mind to know that Tō no Chūjō had been duly
informed of her existence. While he was about it Genji thought that he
had better tell Yūgiri too, for it was awkward that he should still
imagine the girl to be his sister. The news that she was not Genji’s
daughter hardly came as a surprise to him, for his father’s manner
towards her had in the course of the last months continually aroused
his suspicion. But when he remembered the glimpse he had caught of her
on the morning of the typhoon (he was obliged to admit to himself that
he thought her handsomer even than the lady from whom a cruel fate
divided him), for a moment he felt that he had been a fool not to guess
the truth and use the opportunities that chance had provided. But no
sooner had this idea crossed his mind than he rejected it with horror.
Could it be that even in thought he had for an instant been disloyal to
the love upon which his whole life was founded?
When the day of the ceremony came round, a messenger arrived from the
Sanjō palace bearing presents from the old Princess. There was the
usual lacquered box in which to lay the severed lock, and though there
had been very little time for preparation, both this and the other
presents were of the handsomest kind imaginable. In her letter she
said: ‘I am not certain that it is proper[15] for me even to write upon
such an occasion as this. I should not in any case have been able to
witness the proceedings, for I am far too ill to leave my bed; and if
a few presents and a letter from me are unprecedented in such a case,
so too is the age which I have now reached, and it is clear that the
ordinary rules must not be applied to me. In accordance with surprising
and delightful information which I have just received, I long to
address you as my grand-daughter, but hesitate to do so except at your
express command.... “Since son and son-in-law both claim you, a double
reason have I to greet you as a long-lost scion of my race.”’[16]
Letter and poem were written in a very aged and trembling hand.
Genji was present when the messenger arrived, having come across
to Tamakatsura’s apartments to make the final arrangements for the
ceremony. ‘The style to which she was brought up looks to us very
quaint and old-fashioned,’ he said, inspecting the writing; ‘but I
have been told that in her day she was considered the best penwoman at
Court. One is apt to forget that she is now, poor thing, a very old
lady indeed. Look at that line. How terribly her hand shook!’ Then,
after reading the poem through a second time: ‘What ingenuity! There
is in the whole poem not a single phrase which has not some special
application to to-day’s ceremony. It would be difficult to imagine
lines in which so little space was wasted,’ and he smiled.
Even a man of far less hasty disposition than Tō no Chūjō would, after
such a revelation as that which had recently taken place at the old
Princess’s house, have awaited the day of the Initiation Ceremony with
the utmost impatience. It was evident, when the time came, that the
proceedings were to be attended with every possible pomp and formality.
In fact the whole complexion of the affair only served to convince Tō
no Chūjō more firmly than ever that his daughter had from the start
been Genji’s mistress. In his capacity as Sponsor he was admitted
behind her screens at the Hour of the Swine.[17] Over and above the
equipment that is customary on such occasions he noticed that her dais
was furnished with a magnificence such as he had never witnessed. When
the main ritual was ended and food had been served behind the screen,
Genji saw to it that the Great Lamp was so disposed as to illumine
this corner of the room far more clearly than usual; and it was in
a flood of lamplight that father and daughter now met face to face.
But merely to see her was not enough; he longed to pour upon her a
thousand questions concerning her own childhood and later adventures,
concerning her mother’s death, and all that had led up to the present
extraordinary situation. However, it was clear that for the moment any
such conversation was impossible, and he had the strange experience
of being called upon to tie the girdle of his daughter’s dress without
having yet exchanged a single word with her. ‘I have not yet publicly
announced that you are her father,’ whispered Genji, ‘so please behave
as though you were standing Sponsor to her as my friend.’ ‘You need
not worry about that,’ whispered Tō no Chūjō in reply; ‘it will be
difficult enough under the best of circumstances suddenly to begin
addressing her as my daughter, and at the present minute....’ While the
tankard was going round he added: ‘I am so overwhelmed by the splendour
of to-day’s proceedings and the trouble which you have evidently taken
to make them a success, that I feel it would be ungrateful of me to ask
why I was not taken into your confidence before. But you will admit, I
am sure, that it would be strange if I were not somewhat puzzled....’
Genji made no reply.
Most of the Royal Princes were waiting in the ante-room, among them
several of Tamakatsura’s suitors, who were curious to know why the two
Ministers were so long in reappearing from behind the screen. Of Tō
no Chūjō’s sons, only the two eldest, Kashiwagi and Kōbai, had been
let into the secret. Their feelings about the matter were necessarily
somewhat mixed; for with the disappointment of finding that Tamakatsura
was their sister was mingled a feeling of intense relief that their
courtship had hitherto remained secret. ‘I may tell you,’ whispered
Kōbai, leaning across to Kashiwagi, ‘that I have had a very lucky
escape. I was on the point of giving myself away over this. But as it
is, I don’t think any one knows about it.’ ‘There’s something very odd
about Genji,’ whispered Kashiwagi in reply. ‘This is really the second
time that he has adopted a girl apparently because he had himself taken
a fancy to her, and has then pressed her into the arms of any one who
cared to take her....’
Genji, as a matter of fact, overheard both these remarks, and going
to Tō no Chūjō, he said: ‘I must beg of you to be very careful for a
little while; otherwise both our reputations are likely to suffer.
Were we ordinary citizens we should only have our own consciences to
satisfy, and if our mutual affairs got into rather a mess it would
concern no one but ourselves. Unfortunately, however, we both of
us hold positions in which the good opinion of all sorts of people
(some of whom judge by standards quite different from ours) is of the
greatest importance to us, and can only be disregarded at the risk of
disagreeable consequences. It would be fatal, for example, if this
situation were suddenly sprung upon the world in all its details.
But allowed to leak out piecemeal, it will do very little harm. What
matters is that people should have plenty of time to get used to one
part of a scandal before the next is allowed to leak out.’ ‘I had no
intention of putting her under your wing,’ replied Tō no Chūjō; ‘but
I must confess that it has worked out very well. In fact, it seems as
though she were intended by Fate to be your child rather than mine; you
may count upon me to do exactly as you think best.’
Great efforts were made to hush up for a little while longer the
true facts concerning Tamakatsura’s birth. But talking about other
people’s affairs is so indispensable an occupation that such efforts
are commonly of little avail; and in this case it was not long before
every detail was known. Being a great gossip, the Lady from Ōmi was
soon in possession of the secret, and one day in Lady Chūjō’s room,
when Kashiwagi and Kōbai were both present, she screamed out: ‘Here’s
news for you! My father’s found another new daughter! What do you
think of that? And she’s a luckier girl than I am, for before father
found her Prince Genji said she was his daughter, and made no end of
a fuss over her. And listen now, this is the queer part of it:
that girl’s mother was no better than mine!’ All this was blurted
out at her usual high pitch, and without a thought of the effect
which she was producing. Lady Chūjō, upon whom these outbursts made a
painful impression, did not answer. Kashiwagi thought it his duty to
say severely, ‘It is quite true that Lady Tamakatsura is our father’s
child. There were reasons why it was more convenient that she should
be brought up by Prince Genji. But it is undesirable that this should
be talked about. I cannot understand how you came to hear of it at
all; and still more surprised that you should regard it as a piece of
news that can be shouted all over the house. However, as I know by
experience, several of our gentlewomen are particularly bad at holding
their tongues, and one of them might possibly have overheard....’ The
Lady from Ōmi laughed boisterously: ‘Well, I never!’ she said. ‘What
a silly fuss to make! Why, no one talks of anything else! And look
here! They say she thinks she’s going to be Lady-of-the-Bedchamber.
Now listen to me all of you. I wouldn’t ever have come to fetch and
carry for my sister in these grand rooms and do all the jobs that the
rest of you thought yourselves too good for, if I hadn’t been told
she would put in a word for me when she got the chance. I could be
Lady-of-the-Bedchamber to-morrow, yes, so I could, if my sister didn’t
choose to let a stranger get off with the job.’ This outburst provoked
peals of laughter. ‘I don’t know why you should have got it into your
head,’ said some one at last, ‘that if there was a vacancy for the post
of Lady-of-the-Bedchamber, the choice should lie between you and Lady
Tamakatsura.’ ‘It’s no good your trying to make fun of me,’ she shouted
angrily. ‘I know quite well what it is: you think I’m not fit to live
among such grand people as you. And whose fault is it, pray, that I
came at all? Master Kashiwagi here thought it was a very clever
thing to take a poor girl away from her village and make a joke of her
in this fine house. Yes, you’re very grand people, Prime Ministers and
I don’t know what! I do you reverence....’ And with this she retreated
to a corner, stepping backwards in mock obeisance.
Kashiwagi surveyed her as she crouched panting in her corner. She
was not such a bad-looking creature. But at the present moment, with
her face contorted by rage and her eyeballs extended to twice their
proper size, she cut so fantastic a figure that he was obliged to
agree with her own dictum: it was indeed a mistake on his part ever
to have brought her here. He now made vain efforts to calm her, which
were seconded by his brother Kōbai, who said: ‘It is quite true that
our sister Lady Chūjō has a certain influence in such matters, and I
am sure she will do her best for you. But you must first calm yourself
down a little. At the present you look for all the world like the Sun
Goddess,[18] when she “stamped on the hard stones of her courtyard till
the chips flew like snow.” Be patient a little while longer, and you
will find that Lady Chūjō is most anxious to do what she can for you.’
‘If you go on like this,’ Kashiwagi could not help observing, ‘we shall
all hope that, like the Sun Goddess, you will end by shutting yourself
up in a cave.’ At this point he and Kōbai withdrew.
‘Your brothers would never dare come here and make fun of me like this
unless you put them up to it,’ Ōmi now gasped to Lady Chūjō between
her tears. But she still did not despair of winning her sister’s good
graces, and to that end she now flung herself with alacrity into all
the odd jobs which the charwomen and scullery-maids would not
touch. She could be seen at any hour of the day running at full speed
hither and thither (but generally in the wrong direction) with a zest
never equalled in the annals of this ancient house. Whenever she met
her sister she called out to her: ‘Now you will recommend me, won’t
you, for that post at Court?’ Lady Chūjō resented this continual
persecution, but thought it better to make no reply.
The story of Ōmi’s misguided aspiration reached Tō no Chūjō’s ears and
diverted him extremely. He went straight to Lady Chūjō’s apartments and
called for the Lady of Ōmi to be sent to him. She was not far off, and
hearing her own name uttered she at once replied with a loud whoop and
came flouncing into the room. ‘You seem to have plenty to do nowadays,’
he said. ‘If you put the same energy into this Palace work that I hear
you are asking for, you would certainly be setting a new precedent! But
why did you not tell me before that you wanted this place? I have only
this moment heard about it.’ Her father at any rate was not making fun
of her, she said to herself with great satisfaction. ‘I did hope you
would hear about it,’ she answered Tō no Chūjō; ‘but Madam my sister or
some one else promised me they would tell you, and I thought it was all
in safe hands. Indeed, I’d counted on it so, that when I found out this
Lady Tamakatsura was after my place and every one seemed to think she’d
get it, I felt like the poor tinker who dreamed of millions, and was
so put about I didn’t know, as the saying goes, whether my hands grew
out of my arms or my chest.’ There was no denying that she expressed
herself with considerable vigour. Tō no Chūjō found it hard to maintain
his gravity, but he succeeded in saying at last: ‘I wish you had taken
me into your confidence. If only I had known that you wanted this post
I could have put in for it before there was any other candidate in
the field. Of course Lady Tamakatsura has considerable claims. But I
am sure that if I had known in good time I could easily have convinced
his Majesty that you were something not to be missed. Even now I dare
say it is not too late. You had better make haste and compose your
letter of application, and write it out in your best hand. When his
Majesty sees that it is full (as no doubt it will be) of conceits from
the Long Poems and other such archaic compositions, he will certainly
give your case very serious consideration. For he is particularly open
to impressions of that sort.’ She had not the least idea that she was
being made game of by a heartless and facetious parent. ‘If that’s all
I have got to do,’ she answered gaily, ‘I shall manage famously. I can
make Japanese poems one after another; there’s no stopping me. I get a
bit mixed up about these terms of respect. But if you’ll just give me
a little help with those, I’ll manage to work in something nice about
you into the bargain.’ So saying she rubbed her hands with delight
at the prospect of being allowed to exercise her wonderful powers of
composition. The gentlewomen who were in attendance upon Lady Chūjō
heard the whole of this conversation, and nearly died of suppressed
laughter. Several were afflicted by so terrible a fit of the giggles
that they had to be removed from the room. Lady Chūjō herself, so far
from being amused, merely went hot and cold all over while this painful
exhibition was in progress. To no Chūjō insisted upon treating the
matter as a joke. ‘Whenever I feel at all depressed,’ he said to Lady
Ōmi, ‘I shall come to you for distraction. You are an unfailing source
of entertainment.’ It was, however, said at Court that Tō no Chūjō was
in reality very much distressed by the girl’s silliness, and only made
a joke of it in order to cover up his disappointment.
[1] A religious ceremony which took place in the twelfth month. The
Ōharano shrine was situated in the hills to the west of Kyōto.
[2] Genji’s palace.
[3] 5 a.m.
[4] Murasaki’s father.
[5] Perhaps the anniversary of Lady Rokujō’s death?
[6] This Royal Visit is so much more splendid than any previous one
that precedents do not count. There is a play of words: _mi-yuki_ means
‘deep snow,’ but also ‘Royal Visit.’
[7] Again there is a play on the two senses of _mi-yuki_.
[8] Lady Chūjō, Tō no Chūjō’s eldest daughter.
[9] Clan god of the Fujiwaras, the family to which Tō no Chūjō and
consequently Tamakatsura belonged.
[10] The sponsor was usually the father; but also sometimes an uncle,
brother-in-law or the like. The Initiation, frequently mentioned in the
_Tale_, was a religious ceremony corresponding to our Confirmation.
[11] Genji is of course referring to his sequestration of Tamakatsura.
[12] See vol. i, p. 40 seq.
[13] See above, p. 19.
[14] In Sanskrit, Pāramitā. The festival is held in autumn and spring,
apparently in Japan only.
[15] She had taken Buddhist orders, and this was a Shintō occasion.
[16] An ingenious poem in which every word has some allusion to the
ceremony in hand. For example _futa_ = ‘both’ and ‘cover of the box’;
_hakago_ = ‘hidden child’ and ‘nest of boxes, fitting one into the
other.’
[17] 9 p.m.
[18] When the God Susano-o returned from the Nether World, his sister
the Sun Goddess was enraged at his presumption and ‘stamped on the
stones of her courtyard till the chips flew like snow.’ Later on she
was so much upset by her brother’s conduct that she retired to a cavern
and the Earth was plunged in darkness.
CHAPTER II
BLUE TROUSERS
Though both Genji and Tō no Chūjō strongly urged her to accept the post
of Lady-of-the-Bedchamber, Tamakatsura still hesitated. The position
did not necessarily imply that she would have personal contact with
the Emperor or be in any way under his protection. But since so many
people (even her supposed ‘father’) seemed to find her interesting,
she now assumed, without any very good reason for doing so, that the
Emperor too would doubtless become attached to her, and she foresaw
endless conflicts of the most disagreeable kind with both Akikonomu
and Lady Chūjō, not to mention other minor favourites. Her own rapid
rise to fame and the deference with which she, a mere foundling from
the hedgeside, was treated by both the Chief Ministers, had inevitably
aroused hostility in many quarters; among her female acquaintances
there were many (she was sure) who regarded her as a pampered upstart,
and would with the greatest pleasure in the world have seen her placed
in a painful and undignified position. She was old enough to be fully
aware of the disadvantages and dangers of every course which lay open
to her, and though she concealed her troubles from those about her,
she was during all this time in a condition of great depression and
perplexity.
Many people would not have regarded her present situation as anything
to be complained of. Genji’s behaviour towards her was still beyond
reproach, and in many respects her life at the New Palace was obviously
a very enviable one. But she felt that their relation was equivocal,
the subject for months past of many jests and speculations. She was
occupying a position which was in its essence utterly distasteful to
her, and longed to clear herself finally of the suspicions which were
bound to hang over her as long as she stayed under this roof.
Tō no Chūjō, anxious to remain on good terms with Genji, and certain
that, whatever might be his friend’s professions, he could not really
wish to part with the girl, made no effort to remove her from her
present quarters or in any way assert his parental authority.
The extraordinary position which she occupied, thus hung as it were
precariously between two rival parents, naturally caused her name and
story to become more than ever notorious in the City; and to make
matters worse, just at the moment when all eyes were turned upon her,
Genji began once more, as the summer drew on, to be far less discreet
in his behaviour; as though, having heroically discharged his duty
by informing her father of her whereabouts, he were exempt from any
further obligation to play a sober and paternal part. How she longed at
this time for some female confidant, mother or sister, with whom she
could discuss even some small part of the difficulties which now beset
her! Unfortunately, her most frequent visitors during all these months
were Genji and Tō no Chūjō, precisely the two persons in whom it was
least possible that she should confide.
Tamakatsura’s mourning[19] was now over; but until the end of the
month,[20] there could be no question of her formal affiancement.
The Emperor was impatient to get the matter settled, and her various
lovers pressed their claims more vehemently than ever upon those whom
they imagined to be responsible for her decision. But in whatever
quarter they applied, the answer was the same: nothing could be done
until the tenth month had begun.
Her new brothers[21] received no encouragement to visit her. But it
would be their business to look after her affairs should she take
service at Court, and they were anxious to discuss with her several
matters in connection with this. Kashiwagi had been much attracted by
Genji’s daughter. The rapidity with which he had adjusted himself to
the new situation caused a good deal of amusement. This embarrassed
him, and it was only at his father’s request that he visited the New
Palace. Outwardly, there was no change in the manner of his reception.
When he first arrived, announcing that he had a message to deliver,
he was left waiting in the garden, and as he had been instructed to
perform his commission secretly, he was obliged to hide in the shadow
of a laurel-tree, for a bright moon was shining. Having protested that
his message was of a very private nature, he was at last allowed to
address Tamakatsura through the curtains of the southern window. But in
her nervousness she did not feel capable of speaking to him herself,
and her replies were made through her maid Saishō. ‘When my father
chose me to deliver this message, I am sure he took for granted that
you would do me the honour of replying to it with your own lips. The
matter will require a certain amount of further discussion, and I fear
we shall find this roundabout method very inconvenient. Even though you
do not consider me worth putting yourself out for in the usual way, you
must remember that we are now recognized to be children of the same
father. I may be old-fashioned, but I came here hoping that a brother
counted with you for a good deal....’
She felt that she must make some concrete excuse, and said to her
maid: ‘Tell him that I should very much like to thank him for all
his kindness to me during the last year or so; but unfortunately I
am feeling very unwell and cannot leave my couch. I should not feel
justified in treating him with such informality but for the family
tie which now unites us.’ This, repeated to him by the maid Saishō,
sounded very stiff and unaccommodating. ‘If your mistress is unwell,’
he said, ‘would it not be better if I came and stood at her bedside?
The matter is an important one, and I do not at present feel as though
I were getting into touch with her at all. But I will not insist ...’
and he began in a low voice to read out his father’s message. Kashiwagi
was as well turned-out as any prince at Court, and the maid by no means
regretted her mistress’s obduracy. ‘I have heard nothing more from
you’ (the message ran) ‘about our Palace project. It is high time
that a decision were reached, and I should like to have another talk
with you. But I think that, for obvious reasons, it is better for me
to keep away at present. There can, however, be no objection to your
sending me an occasional note, and your complete silence is somewhat
perplexing.’ ‘Tell your mistress,’ Kashiwagi added on his own account,
‘that however distasteful to her my conversation may in the past have
been, it cannot in our altered circumstances be of a nature to cause
her the slightest offence. I am still at a loss to know why my previous
advances, made in ignorance of our true relation, were so coldly and
unfeelingly rejected. Still less do I understand why now, when I can
no longer be suspected of coming as a lover, she should insist upon
putting the whole breadth of her apartments between us. Never again
shall I consent to be treated in this way. Polite society, please point
out to her, will have to change a great deal before such discourtesy is
tolerated....’
How was she to pacify him? ‘The change in our relationship is not
generally known,’ she said in her reply; ‘moreover, I do not think
that having left me to rusticate for so many years amid the savagery
of Tsukushi, your family ought to expect of me the last refinements of
urban demeanour.’ So she rallied him, and with complete success.
‘Forgive me for intruding,’ said the maid, ‘but I think Madam’s
difficulty to-day has been that she did not know whether you came as a
suitor or a brother. She is extremely sensitive to what is thought of
her by the world at large; that, I am sure, is the only reason she did
not come and converse with you at close quarters. But such behaviour is
quite unlike her, and you will find that next time you come....’ ‘No,
thank you,’ he cried; ‘I fancy I might have to come a great many times
and sit here a very long while before your mistress would own that my
service had redeemed me from her ban.’ So saying, he left the house.
Prince Higekuro served in the same Guard Regiment as Yūgiri, and
was continually seeking him out in order to have long and emotional
conversations about Tamakatsura. He always hoped that Yūgiri would
plead his cause with Genji. A more suitable husband for her than
himself could not, Higekuro felt sure, possibly be imagined. He was
amiable, good-looking, qualified by rank and birth to secure for her
at Court a far higher place than that to which she had any right to
aspire. What more could Genji want? But, as Yūgiri pointed out, the
main difficulty was that, as things now stood, she was in a few months’
time to take service in the Palace; this was Genji’s idea, and Tō no
Chūjō, convinced that it was part of some subtle plan, did not think it
wise to interfere.
Prince Higekuro was the elder brother of the ex-Emperor Suzaku’s
Consort, Lady Jōkyōden. With the exception of Genji and Tō no
Chūjō, he was by far the most influential man in the country. He was
now about thirty-two or three. His wife, an elder sister of Murasaki,
was four years his senior. In many cases such a disparity of age would
not much have mattered; but Lady Makibashira[22] seemed far older than
her actual years. He nicknamed her ‘granny,’ and in this there was
something more than a jest, for soon her old-maidish ways began to
annoy him, and they had not been together many months before he was
wondering how long he should be able to go on enduring her society.
It was the existence of this unfortunate entanglement that had
discouraged Genji from furthering Prince Higekuro’s suit. The Prince
had not, indeed, by any means the reputation of leading a disorderly or
even frivolous existence. True, he was seldom at home; but apart from
his courtship of Tamakatsura herself, his time seemed to be devoted
entirely to practical affairs. Having heard that Tō no Chūjō thought
well of him and also that the lady herself was by no means anxious
for a career at the Palace, Higekuro, who had almost lost hope, again
plucked up heart. Genji, he admitted to himself, was evidently against
him. But every one knew why Genji was so reluctant to part with her.
One morning in the ninth month, when the whole world lay glittering in
the first frost of the year, messenger after messenger began to arrive
with the usual fancifully decked and folded love-letters. Tamakatsura
refused even to look at them, and only reluctantly consented to hear
them read aloud.
From Higekuro came a note in which he said: ‘The changing skies
tell me that the time of my respite[23] is almost spent. “Lived I in
hope, so were this Month of Fasting my despair; but being what I am, I
hang my life upon the weak thread of its dwindling days.”’ He seemed to
assume that a decision had been reached and would irretrievably take
effect at the beginning of the next month. She herself knew nothing of
this.
Another suitor. Prince Sochi, was equally despondent: ‘Why am I
writing?’ he said in his letter. ‘I have lost you, and there is no more
to be said. But “Though you be standing in the radiance of the Morning
Sun, perchance one drop of dew may linger of those your sleeve once
gathered in shadowy garden walks.” Did I but think you knew how much it
costs me to lose you, I should derive some trifling comfort....’ The
note containing this poem was attached to an ice-cold spray of bamboo,
plucked from near the ground and carried with such care that it was
still thickly covered with hoar-frost. The messenger was on this, as
upon every occasion, a person whose quality matched the elegance of the
letter.
Yet another suitor, whose communications were of the most pressing
nature, was Prince Hyōbukyō’s son, Sahyōye. Being Murasaki’s brother,
he was constantly at her apartments, and his present despondency seemed
to prove that, according to the information to be gathered in that
quarter, Lady Tamakatsura’s fate was already decided. His messenger now
brought a letter in which Sahyōye said: ‘Even though I should at last
forget you, how oh how shall I learn to support the dreariness of a
life into which no thought of you may find its way?...’ And so on.
These letters were a source of great interest and pleasure to
Tamakatsura’s gentlewomen, who discussed with unfailing relish the
colour of the paper, the style of penmanship, the various kinds of
scent with which the letter was perfumed, and many kindred questions.
‘I hope Madam will not make up her mind for a long while to come,’ said
one of them. ‘We shall be bored to death when this is all over.’
Her reply to Prince Sochi was short and vague, but not altogether
discouraging; for in her poem she said: ‘The sunflower, that seems so
willingly of its own nature to turn towards the Light of Day, would
fain enough (who knows?) have kept the bright frost glittering on its
leaves.’ This could be interpreted in several ways; but Prince Sochi
was very agreeably surprised by even so faint a flicker of regret. That
in entering the Palace she was acting against her own will and judgment
he did not at all believe, and he could only regard her reply as a sign
of well-bred gratitude for his patient courtship; yet it gave him a
considerable degree of pleasure.
In the course of the morning love-lorn communications arrived from
a number of less distinguished suitors. For most of them she had no
special feeling one way or the other, and dealt with each of these
protestations as her guardians informed her that the position of the
writer required. She showed indeed throughout the whole business (as
both Genji and Tō no Chūjō were forced to admit) a good sense and
docility that other members of her sex might have done well to imitate.
[19] For the old Princess, Tō no Chūjō’s mother, and consequently her
grandmother, whose death is here assumed, though not actually referred
to till three chapters later. The blue trousers, after which the
chapter is named, were worn in sign of mourning.
[20] The ninth month, in which no marriages could be celebrated.
[21] Kashiwagi, Kōbai, and Tō no Chūjō’s other sons.
[22] Not named in the book. But in English she needs a name.
Makibashira is the name of her little girl, who appears so seldom as
not to need one, so I have used this name for the mother.
[23] The ninth month, during which no such step as the affiancement of
Tamakatsura or her presentation at Court could take place. See above,
p. 41.
CHAPTER III
MAKIBASHIRA
‘I am very much perturbed by what you have just told I me,’ said Genji
to Prince Higekuro some months later. ‘It will very likely upset all
my plans. I hope you are not telling every one about it....’ That
is precisely what Higekuro _was_ doing; the temptation to brag of
such a success was one indeed which he could hardly be expected to
resist. Some time had now elapsed since the episode to which Genji
referred. Tamakatsura had then yielded less to his importunity than
to a feeling that this man, from whose touch she still shrank with
horror, was not so much a lover as an instrument of Fate, no more to
be avoided than were those other strokes of destiny that had pursued
her so relentlessly since her earliest years. He hoped at first that
she would grow used to him, and pretended not to notice her depression.
But as time went on matters only became worse, and Higekuro was already
beginning to regard the situation as hopeless, when it became clear
that she was with child. This gave him fresh courage; he felt that
Heaven had set its seal upon their union, and determined to bear with
patience her present wayward humour. For the mere sight of her beauty
gave him an increasing pleasure, and the thought that he had still no
hold upon her and might any day wake to find that she had fled from
him to the Emperor’s Palace, perhaps even into his Majesty’s arms, was
more than he could bear. He attributed his momentary success quite as
much to the astuteness of Ben no Omoto[24] as to the compassion of
the Ishiyama Buddha, to whom his prayers had for long been addressed.
But his human ally was now in deep disgrace for the part she had
played in the affair and was at present a prisoner in the servants’
rooms. ‘Though all the blame falls upon me,’ thought this unfortunate
creature, ‘it is clear that the Blessed Buddha is really responsible.
For I have played the go-between without a grain of success for a score
or so of my mistress’s lovers; and if I did better this time it was
only because the Buddha of Ishiyama knows an honest gentleman when he
sees one....’
Genji would have given worlds that this thing should not have happened;
but both he and Tō no Chūjō had encouraged Higekuro’s suit, and though
they had every right to complain of the unfortunate manner in which
he had urged it, it was now too late to scold him or send him about
his business. Indeed, if the girl’s reputation were to be saved, the
only possible course was to treat Higekuro as an approved and accepted
lover; and henceforward on his visits to the New Palace he was openly
received with every mark of consideration and respect. Higekuro for his
part was anxious to go through the necessary formalities and establish
the young bride in his own palace at the earliest possible moment.
But Genji was determined that this should not take place if there was
any chance that the girl’s reception there would in any quarter be
an unfavourable one. Such at least was the pretext which he used for
delaying Tamakatsura’s departure. ‘Do, I beg of you, make sure,’ he
said to her father, ‘that she is not suddenly plunged into scenes of
jealousy and intrigue. Anything in the shape of scandal or bickering
would be extremely painful to her.’ ‘On the contrary,’ said Tō no
Chūjō, ‘I should be much more uneasy if she were going to the Palace,
which I imagine to be now out of the question. His Majesty has an
undoubted partiality for her; and any one in that position, unless
backed up by the most powerful family connections, is apt to have a
very disagreeable time. I should certainly do all I could for her. But
you see for yourself what difficulties I am having over Lady Chūjō’s
Palace career....’ There was much truth in this. The Emperor had
himself suggested her application for the vacant post. But his interest
in her, if it existed at all, was based only on one brief glimpse, and
so casual an approbation by no means implied that he would protect her
with the full weight of Imperial authority against the contemptuous
hostility of her rivals.
In the formal letter of committal sent by Tō no Chūjō to the husband on
the third day after the wedding, he purposely laid great stress on the
part played by Genji in her upbringing, expressing in the warmest terms
his gratitude for her foster-father’s unceasing care and kindness; for
he was certain that the content of the letter would end by reaching
Genji’s ears. The marriage was of course concluded with the utmost
secrecy; but the news of it was too interesting a piece of gossip to
remain long concealed. It was whispered, in strictest confidence, from
ear to ear; before long it had reached the Palace, and was finally
recounted to the Emperor himself.
He was very nice about it. ‘I am extremely sorry that we are to lose
her,’ he said. ‘But of course, if her thoughts have been occupied
elsewhere, that quite explains her long hesitation.... I can easily
understand that at such a moment as this she would not be willing
to take up permanent duties at Court. But if she cares to assist us
occasionally....’
It was now the eleventh month. Tamakatsura had agreed to discharge
the functions of Lady-of-the-Bedchamber from her apartments in
Genji’s palace. It was a time of year when a great many religious
ceremonies take place at Court, and the new Lady-of-the-Bedchamber
had not a moment’s leisure. Her subordinates were continually coming
over from the Palace to ask her advice, and her rooms were full of
bustle and youthful chatter. Much to her annoyance, Prince Higekuro was
no longer content to pay long evening visits, but had now installed
himself permanently in her quarters. Prince Sochi and the other
suitors, who were still unaware that a secret wedding had taken place,
were naturally indignant at the liberties which they saw accorded to
their rival. One of them, indeed, had a double reason for annoyance.
This was Sahyōye, the brother of Lady Makibashira. Not only was his
own suit ignominiously unsuccessful, but his sister was being made
publicly ridiculous by the continued presence of her husband in another
woman’s house. The young man was furious, but at present saw no means
of bringing his brother-in-law[25] to book.
The situation was really rather comic. Higekuro had for years past
been held up as a model of regularity, industry, sobriety; and
now his hectic courtship, with its secret journeyings at dead of
night and break of dawn, was the talk of half the Court. Romantic
touches were added to the story, and in the end it really seemed
to Higekuro’s astonished friends that he must have undergone some
mysterious transformation. Tamakatsura, too, was by nature sociable,
good-humoured and full of high spirits; but in Higekuro’s presence her
whole being underwent a profound change: she became gloomy, irritable,
sharp-tempered, to a degree that must have made it sufficiently
apparent to every one that she did not care in the least for him. But
she constantly wondered whether Genji thought that she was really
enjoying herself with this repulsive man, and blushed at the low
opinion he must now have formed of her taste. She remembered too Prince
Sochi’s attractive warmth and liveliness of disposition. What could
have possessed her?... And she became more disagreeable to Higekuro
than ever.
Genji was much relieved at having put an end once and for all to a
situation which had involved him in much unpleasant suspicion. Feelings
beyond his control might sometimes lead him into odd and equivocal
positions, but (Genji assured himself) his natural tendency was to
shrink from such entanglements. He was with Murasaki when these
reflections passed through his mind, and said to her suddenly: ‘Do
you remember how suspicious you were when Tamakatsura first came to
us? You see now that there was no reason for your alarm....’ Yes, he
could at last be certain that he was quite safe. Even if circumstances
should bring them together again and some part of their former intimacy
revive, there would never be the same danger as before.... And he began
to recall the time when he was most in love with her, when he had even
persuaded himself that he could find a way of keeping her for his own.
But stay! Had things changed so much after all? Could the thought of
parting with her ever have been more painful to him than at this very
minute it was? Henceforward the image of Tamakatsura haunted his mind
more constantly than ever.
One morning, hearing that Prince Higekuro had for a short while quitted
her apartments, Genji once more paid her a visit. He found her looking
extremely depressed and unwell. He was told that for some time past
she had seemed incapable of making the slightest exertion. But his
arrival seemed to give her a little strength, for she raised herself on
her couch and had her screens drawn partly back. Genji was careful to
behave with the utmost restraint, and for some while they conversed
rather stiffly about the general news of the day. What a relief it
was to be in the company of some one really good-looking, after such
a long spell of Higekuro’s society! Her husband, it was true, had a
straightforward, well-meaning sort of face, but how commonplace, how
ordinary! She felt bitterly ashamed at the choice that Genji and the
world at large must be thinking her to have made, and the tears welled
into her eyes. Gradually their conversation became less strained, he
moved to a low stool which he drew up quite close to her couch. She was
much thinner in the face than when he last saw her, but this showed
her features to even better advantage, and the prospect of losing her
entirely was unendurably painful to him.
‘Though when I stooped I drew no draught, yet never thought I that at
the Shallows of the Stream of Death another would stretch out his hand
to claim what I had lost.’[26] He looked at her more tenderly than she
could bear. She hid her face, murmuring as she did so the lines: ‘Long
ere he guide me across the Shallows of Death’s Stream, may my life, a
foam-fleck on the Waters of Trouble, have vanished quite away.’ ‘Come,’
he said smiling, ‘the River has got to be crossed; we cannot escape it
by “vanishing.” However, I promise you I will be there too to hold your
other hand. But let us be serious. You know, I am sure, how wretched I
am at what has happened. Clearly, when I struggled as I did to overcome
my feelings for you, it was not that you might be free to yield
yourself in this rash way to one who, after all, cares far less for
you than I did. It seems to me now incredible that I should ever have
placed such confidence in his discretion; but who could foresee...?’
He saw that the whole matter was too painful for her to discuss;
and to change the subject he continued hastily: ‘The Emperor is very
much disappointed that you have not once been seen at Court. How would
it be if you were to stay at the Palace for a little while after you
leave us? It will not be so easy for you to get away, once you have
settled in your new home. The Emperor will in any case think that I
have behaved in a very inconsistent way. But I am glad to say your
father is quite satisfied at what has happened....’ So he spoke, trying
to distract her by such comfortable considerations as occurred to
him. But it was all of no avail, and she was soon hopelessly involved
in tears. He was aghast to discover into what depths of misery her
own inexplicable act had plunged her; but it was clear that sympathy
could not help her, and in as sensible and dispassionate a tone as
he could muster he began to give her advice concerning her immediate
future, insisting above all that, as things were,[27] there could be no
question of her living at Higekuro’s house.
Prince Higekuro himself was at first very adverse to the idea of her
going to the Palace at all. But in the end he saw that it would be
easier to move her thence to his own palace than to snatch her straight
from Genji’s hands, and he at last consented to her spending a few
weeks at Court.
His present mode of existence, stowed away in a corner of Tamakatsura’s
apartments, was very cramped and inconvenient; but even should he
persuade her to return with him to his own palace, much required to be
done before he could house her with even tolerable comfort. In the last
year he had allowed everything to go to ruin, and there was hardly a
corner in the whole building that did not urgently need repairs.
For many months he had ceased to make any enquiry concerning his wife’s
present condition of mind, and even his children, of whom he had always
been particularly fond, seemed no longer to interest him. But he was at
bottom a kind-hearted and even rather sentimental man; he realized in
a vague and general way that this refurnishing of the house in honour
of another woman’s arrival was probably rather painful to her, and he
did his best to spare her any unnecessary inconvenience or humiliation.
But his thoughts were all the time so entirely occupied with other
things that his precautions were not in the least successful; indeed,
everything seemed to happen in the way most calculated to wound her
susceptibilities.
Lady Makibashira had not been brought up in a way to prepare her for
servility or self-effacement. The daughter of a Royal Prince, and
herself not lacking (at least in girlhood) either charm or good looks,
she had been universally flattered and applauded. But in recent years
a change had come over her; she had been subject to some strange
possession or spiritual disorder. Her behaviour became more and more
peculiar, and at times she seemed barely conscious of what was going on
around her. For these and other reasons there had for a long time past
been no question of Higekuro living with her as a wife in the ordinary
sense of the word. But he continued to treat her in the way that her
rank demanded, and nothing had occurred till now which could suggest to
the world at large that she did not occupy the foremost place in his
affections.
News of these preparations for Tamakatsura’s arrival reached Prince
Hyōbukyō’s ears: ‘So it has come to this!’ he said with a sigh. ‘I
hear she is extremely handsome and intelligent. No doubt he will
make arrangements to keep her out of sight; but once this girl gets
a foothold in the house, my daughter’s position will become such as
no woman of her quality should be called upon to endure. I shall
at once take steps to protect her from this humiliation; if Higekuro
cannot be brought to reason, she must leave his house immediately.
After all, so long as I am alive, she will not lack a home ...’; and he
began setting to rights an unoccupied wing in his own palace.
But Lady Makibashira had been a married woman for many years. Though
Prince Hyōbukyō was her father, she had long since ceased to think of
his palace as her ‘home,’ and so far from reassuring her, the news that
he intended her to come back to him completely overwhelmed her already
distracted brain. She became first desperately violent and irrational,
and then for days on end lay stretched out motionless upon her bed in a
state of complete exhaustion.
She was by nature very quiet and even-tempered, seeming at times more
like a child on its best behaviour than a full-grown woman. But for
some while past she had suffered from sudden attacks, during which
she played upon those about her the most unaccountable and repulsive
tricks. Lately she had allowed no one to come near her, and her room
had fallen into an indescribable state of filth and disorder. Such a
scene would have at any time disgusted Prince Higekuro, to whom the
least sign of slovenliness was an unforgivable offence. But coming
as he now did straight from Tamakatsura’s scrupulously clean and
well-ordered apartments, he was appalled at the slatternly scene that
lay before him.
But he had shared his life with her for year upon year, and even now
pity soon prevailed over disgust. She seemed to know him and be quite
capable of carrying on a conversation. After a while he said: ‘It is
obvious, is it not, that the relation between two people cannot go
on being always exactly the same. But it is only among savages
or quite uneducated persons that this leads to wranglings and
altercations. People of our sort know how to control themselves, show
a reasonable amount of forbearance so long as they choose to put up
with the situation; and when there is obviously nothing to be gained
by holding out any longer, they part good-humouredly. You, on the
contrary, have worked yourself up into such a state over this business
that you are quite ill, and though I have wanted to talk things over
with you, I did not know whether you were in a fit state to take part
in such a conversation. Not that there is anything new to say. We
agreed about all this some time ago. For a long while after you first
began to suffer from these attacks I waited patiently and was careful
to do nothing that might distress you. But you always admitted that I
could not be expected to wait for ever; sooner or later some one fresh
would have to be called in to manage the household. Well, that’s what
is now going to happen; you must try not to be cross with me about
it. Quite apart from my affection for you, if it were only for our
little people’s sake, you may be quite sure I should never ill-treat or
neglect you. This continual state of grievance and jealousy in which
you now live is simply due to your abandoning yourself unresistingly,
morbidly to wild dreams and imaginings. I can quite understand that
while all this was still undecided you passed through a very anxious
and agitated time. But now everything is settled, and you must make up
your mind to give the new arrangements a trial before you decide that
you are being treated unkindly. I hear that your father is full of
indignation at my alleged barbarity, and intends to remove you to his
own house. Do you think he really means anything by it, or is it only
a threat by which he hopes to bring me to my senses?’ He laughed as he
said this, but in reply she only stared at him with an expression
of reproach and anguish. Even Higekuro’s personal servants, the maids
Moku no Kimi and Chūjō no Omoto, were against him in this matter, and
expressed loud indignation at the prospect of Tamakatsura’s arrival.
One day when Makibashira, apparently better than she had been for some
time, lay quietly weeping, she suddenly said to Chūjō no Omoto: ‘If he
told me straight out that he is ashamed of me because I look so old
and do odd things, I should not mind. But I cannot bear his dragging
in my father’s name. He would not dare say such things to my father’s
face, and if they were to get round.... What he says to me does not
much matter. I have heard it all before, and it does me no harm to hear
it again. But my father....’ At this moment Prince Higekuro entered.
She quickly turned on the couch so that her face was hidden from him.
She was very lightly built, and emaciated as she now was by months of
constant illness, she presented as she lay there a spectacle of almost
unconceivable fragility. Her hair was long and fine; but it had lately
been falling out rapidly, and had in places become very thin. It was
now in a hopeless tangle and pitiably dedraggled with tears. She could
never have been very strikingly handsome, but there was enough of her
father in her to give her face great distinction and charm, which,
however, in her present uncared-for and haggard condition, had not much
chance to take effect.
‘What is this you are saying about your father?’ asked Higekuro as he
entered. ‘You will make terrible mischief between us, if you put it
about that I speak slightingly of him. Besides, it is quite untrue....’
Then more kindly: ‘I have never felt at my ease in that magnificent
palace of Prince Genji’s, and should not care to stay there for long at
a time. But I am determined to go on seeing the lady whom I have just
been visiting, and as I am not suited either by age or temperament
to these perpetual runnings to and fro, I have arranged for her to
come and live with us here. This will certainly be much pleasanter for
her and me; and, I think, for you too. The fact that she is at such a
distance and in so closely scrutinized a place makes the whole affair
far more conspicuous than it need be. Prince Genji, as you know well
enough, is a very important person; he has made himself responsible for
this lady’s happiness, and if he hears that you are being unkind to
her, he will be very angry both with you and with me. So please be as
nice to her as you can.... But of course if you feel you would rather
go and live with Prince Hyōbukyō for a little while, by all means do
so. I promise to come and see you frequently. But in either case you
need not be afraid that I shall cease to care for you and look after
you. I wish I could be as sure that you, on your side, will begin to
take things a little more quietly and sensibly. You do not realize,
I am sure, that all this outcry (which presumably you would not make
unless you were fond of me) is doing me a great deal of harm. For years
past I have done all that was in my power to make you happy, and you
may rest assured that I shall continue to do so....’ He tried to soothe
her, speaking somewhat as he would have spoken to a cross child. ‘There
is no need for you to tell me about your love affairs,’ she answered.
‘I am not interested in them. You know quite well what is worrying me.
My father has been terribly upset by my illness ever since it began.
What the effect upon him would be if I were to go home in my present
condition, I dread to think. It distresses him immeasurably to see me
suffer.... I cannot do it.... My father says that, after all, Lady
Murasaki is my own sister, and it is very wrong of her to spoil my
happiness by introducing you to this girl. But I do not at all agree
with him. Let her introduce you to any one she likes. It is no
affair of mine....’
She spoke quite calmly and sensibly. But Higekuro had seen her in
this mood before, and knew only too well that it might at any moment
terminate in an outburst of the wildest irrationality. ‘You are quite
mistaken about Lady Murasaki,’ he said. ‘She had no hand whatever in
this. She lives locked away in her bower like an Enchanted Princess in
a fairy-story, and would never dream of interfering in the affairs of
persons such as you or me. She regards us all, I can assure you, with
complete contempt. Certainly nothing would distress her more than that
it should be thought she had tried to interest me in Lady Tamakatsura.
Please do not spread such a report; it might do a great deal of harm.’
He stayed chatting with her all the afternoon. By dusk his attention
had already begun to wander, and he was conscious that his replies
were often somewhat at random. For he was trying to decide whether he
could contrive, without too much hurting her feelings, not to spend the
whole of the evening in her society. Just as he was about to rise, a
violent snowstorm began. To insist upon leaving at such a moment would
have shown with too painful a clearness how anxious he was to escape
from her company. Had she spoken one word of complaint or showed the
slightest sign of ill-humour, it would have been easy enough for him
to flare up on his side and so escape from his predicament. But she
had, on the contrary, been a marvel of tolerance, reasonableness and
amiability. It seemed too cruel to leave her, but he had not yet quite
made up his mind, and stood with his hand on the door, staring out into
the dusk. ‘I am afraid it is going to be a very heavy storm,’ she said,
watching him. ‘You will never find your way. It has suddenly grown
quite dark...’ Suddenly her expression changed. He knew exactly
what was passing in her mind. ‘That is all over now,’ she was thinking.
‘If he does stay, what will be the use?...’ ‘I will wait till it clears
a little,’ he said to her. And later: ‘Another time I shall be able
to stay here as long as you like. But to-night there are reasons....
It might be misunderstood.... Both Genji and Tō no Chūjō particularly
desired that I should not miss.... But there is no need to explain. You
are so good and patient that I am sure you will forgive me. To-night
will be the last time. When Lady Tamakatsura is living here everything
will be easier.... But really, you are so much better to-night that
there seems no reason to have any one else in the house at all.’ ‘I
know you would not really like to stay here to-night,’ she said gently.
‘I shall be happier if you go. So long as I know you are thinking
kindly of me I do not mind where you go. I promise not to cry any more.
Look! My sleeve is almost dry....’
Then she sent for her incense-burner, poured in fresh perfumes one
upon another, and with her own hands scented his great riding-cloak
from tip to toe. Her own dress was of a soft yielding stuff, and as
she bent over her work, this dress fell in loose folds that gave her
figure a homely, useful air. But how thin, how frail she had grown!
She seemed like some pale phantom flickering across the winter night.
Her eyes were swollen with weeping, yet her face, he thought, was
beautiful. He felt a sudden tenderness towards her. She had never been
to blame. Ought he not to have waited months, years if need be, before
he inflicted this terrible suffering upon her? For he knew in that
moment all that she had suffered since his dereliction of her began.
But in the midst of his remorse the image of Tamakatsura rose up before
him, and sighing deeply he began to put on his cloak, perfuming it once
more with a miniature brazier that he held for a moment inside
each sleeve. He was not as handsome as Genji, but he was magnificently
built; and as he stood there handling his great riding-coat he looked a
man not lightly to be trifled with. One of his retainers remarked loud
enough to be heard, though not speaking directly to the Prince, that it
had ‘almost stopped snowing and was getting very late.’ The maids Chūjō
no Omoto and Moku no Kimi were lying on a couch in the corner telling
one another dismal stories and sighing ‘What a sad world it is to be
sure!’ at regular intervals. Makibashira herself was lying calm and
still at Higekuro’s feet, her head resting on a low stool. Suddenly she
leapt up, seized a large brazier that was used for drying damp clothes,
and coming up from behind, emptied it over his head.
The thing was done in a moment; so swiftly indeed that Higekuro had
no idea what had happened. He only knew that suddenly his eyes and
nostrils were full of fine, penetrating dust. Blind, choking, and still
but dimly aware of what had happened to him, he found himself shaking
ashes out of his coat, his breeches, his shirt, his hair. Her ladies
stood by terror-stricken. Would he understand that this was one of her
fits, one of those strange accesses of perversity in which her frenzy
drove her to play the most revolting tricks precisely on those whom she
most wished to please? If he thought that she had acted deliberately,
was in possession of her senses when she played this odious prank, it
was inconceivable that he would ever come near her again. They pressed
round, dusting him, sponging him, offering him fresh clothes; but
nothing took away this dry, gritty sensation that pervaded his whole
person, so that he still felt as though he were smeared with ashes to
the very roots of his thick, stubborn hair.
He could not present himself at Tamakatsura’s immaculate apartments
in this condition, and dismissing his followers, he prepared to settle
in for the night.
Makibashira was now in her gentlewomen’s hands. He knew that it was
impossible to hold her responsible for what she had done. Yet the look
of complete unconcern with which she surveyed the havoc she had just
created stung him to a sudden fury, and he felt that he would have
shouted abuse at her, had he not been terrified of provoking on her
part a fresh outburst of devilry. It was now midnight, but he sent for
priests and exorcists, and soon a service of Intercession was in full
swing. The mad woman was now cursing and raving in the most horrifying
manner. All night long she was cudgelled and pulled about by the
priests[28]; dawn found her still maundering and weeping, but after
a little while she became somewhat quieter, and Higekuro took this
opportunity of sending his apologies to the New Palace. ‘Some one here
was suddenly taken ill last night,’ he wrote, ‘and it was impossible
for me to get away. Besides, it looked as though we were in for a very
heavy fall of snow, and it would have seemed to my friends very odd if
I had insisted upon setting out. Time after time I was on the point
of starting, and at this moment I am chilled to the bone with waiting
about for a chance to escape.... I know well enough that you will not
be heart-broken at my failure to appear; but I fear that others may
have taken advantage of my discourtesy....’
He was right. His absence had certainly not caused Tamakatsura the
slightest concern, and the letter of apology, which he had penned with
such agitation in the midst of a scene of utmost horror, she did not
open or in any way acknowledge.
Next day Higekuro’s wife was still in a very distracted condition, and
further incantations were performed. His own secret prayer was that
she might at least recover her reason for a sufficient length of time
to permit of his installing Tamakatsura in the house. For at present
any such step was clearly impossible. He who knew her as she ought to
be could realize that her present savagery and malice were merely the
result of her illness; but a stranger would be terrified and disgusted.
At dusk he set out as usual for Tamakatsura’s rooms. Since his wife’s
illness his wardrobe had been much neglected, and he was continually
complaining that the garments put out for his use were so badly cut
as to make him an object of ridicule as he drove through the streets.
To-day a new cloak had been put out, which fitted him so ill that
he refused to appear in it. The one he had worn on the night of the
catastrophe was full of small holes made by fragments of red-hot
charcoal, and though it had been carefully cleaned, there still clung
to it a most unpleasant smell of burning. Yet in all his clothes
the fragrance of the incense with which she had perfumed them that
night was still distinctly perceptible. To arrive in this charred and
smouldering condition at the New Palace was not to be thought of. He
threw off all these garments, sent them to the washhouse, and once more
had them thoroughly cleaned and set to rights. When they came back,
Moku no Kimi was sent for to give them a good final perfuming. At last
he was ready to start.
Even this one night’s absence made her seem to him more marvellously
lovely than ever. To be with her drove the thought of what was going
on in his own house completely out of his head. And some such solace
was needed, for the scene which he had just left had been agonizing in
the extreme. He stayed at the New Palace till far into the next day.
Spells and incantations seemed powerless against the spirit which had
possessed the sick woman, and she continued to rave in an unabating
frenzy. Terrified lest she should attempt to disfigure him, or, at the
best, play upon him some other sinister prank, Higekuro for the next
few days kept as far away from her rooms as possible. When from time
to time business compelled him to spend an hour or two at his house,
he established himself at the farthest possible end of the building,
and it was here that with great precautions he sent for his children to
come and see him. The eldest was a girl of twelve; the two boys were
younger. They had grown gradually used to the fact that their father
and mother did not often meet; but till now there had never been any
question of their mother’s place being usurped by some one else, and
primed by their nurses with the notion that Tamakatsura’s projected
arrival was part of a dark and monstrous conspiracy, they obeyed his
summonses very sullenly.
Hearing what had taken place, Prince Hyōbukyō’s first thought was to
get his daughter as quickly as possible out of Higekuro’s house. ‘This
is certain to lead to a definite and final breach,’ he said. ‘She
cannot with any dignity remain a day longer under his roof. After all,
so long as I am alive, she can have a very good time here.... There
is no need to take this business too tragically....’ And without any
warning he arrived at Higekuro’s to fetch her away. It so happened that
she was on this occasion enjoying an interval of comparative quietness
and lucidity; though on recovering her self-possession, and realizing
to some extent what had been passing, she was seized with a terrible
fit of melancholy.
When informed that her father was at the door she knew at once what
this implied, and determined to offer no resistance. To stay meant only
to witness the last remnants of her husband’s affection for her dwindle
and disappear. In the end she would probably be forced out of the
house, under circumstances of even greater humiliation. Thinking that
it would give her a feeling of support, her father had brought with
him all her brothers; both the elder ones, Sahyōye and the rest, all
of whom were now great officers at Court, and had come uniformed and
attended as though for a state ceremony; and also her younger brothers,
who by now were making their way in the world, one of them being a
Captain in the Bodyguard, another a Lieutenant; a third, Assistant
in the National Board. The whole party filled no less than three
coaches. That if her father ever came to fetch her, it would be in
this cumbersome and ceremonious way, both she and her gentlewomen had
long anticipated. But the sight of the formidable cortège which was to
put an end for ever to her married life completely overwhelmed her. To
make matters worse, it was announced that the part of his palace which
Hyōbukyō could put at her disposal could not possibly house both her
and all her gentlewomen. Hasty consultations followed. It was arranged
that about half the maids should go back to their own homes. There was
much weeping, whispered promises of reinstatement ‘when Madam recovers
herself,’ and hasty sorting out of small personal belongings. Then
there was the sick woman’s own baggage to be considered, and heated
discussions as to what she would need in her new home. Amid this scene
of tears and confusion the three children strayed about, apparently
quite unmoved. Calling to them, their mother now said: ‘I have been in
great trouble for a long time; but now everything is over, and I do not
care what becomes of me. But you three still have all your lives before
you, and I do not want you to be dragged down with me in my ruin. You,
my little girl, I shall keep with me, come what may. But I shall let
the boys go to their father as often as he wants them—indeed, I
would leave them with him altogether if I thought he would go on taking
any interest in them. Their grandfather will give them all the usual
advantages and make them as happy as he can; but when they grow up
they will find it a great handicap to have been connected with him;
for nothing can nowadays be done except through Prince Genji, and your
grandfather is on very bad terms with him. What I should really like
would be to take you all to some forest far away in the mountains where
no one could ever find us.... But I know that would be a crime ...’ and
she burst into tears. The children had very little idea what all this
was about, but they too began quietly weeping. ‘Poor little things,’
said the nurses. ‘One knows from old stories that the kindest father
will turn against his children if his heart is set upon another woman;
and a man so barbarous as our master, who puts his own wife out of his
house when she is ailing, is not likely to show much pity towards these
defenceless creatures....’ It was now getting late. It looked as if
more snow were coming, and was indeed a most cheerless and uninviting
evening. ‘Make haste,’ some one shouted from outside, ‘it’s blowing
up for a storm.’ Wiping her eyes, Makibashira went to the window and
looked out. She was ready for the journey; but the little girl, who
had always been a great favourite with her father, could not believe
that he would wish her to go away without even having said good-bye
to him; and she now flung herself upon a couch and declared that the
carriage must start without her. Her mother tried to coax her, saying
that things were bad enough as it was, and it was very unkind of her
to be disobedient at such a time. But the child was all the while
hoping that her father would come back to say good-bye to her, and
was determined not to start until she had seen him. But the storm had
now commenced, and she at last saw for herself that there was not
the remotest chance of his stirring on such a night.
There was a certain pillar on the right as you went into the women’s
rooms. Here it was that the little girl generally had her seat; and
now, hating to think that this favourite corner of hers might soon
become some stranger’s sitting-place, she took a folded sheet of
dark-brown paper, and hastily scribbling something upon it, she pushed
it into a crack in the pillar with the point of her long hair-pin. What
she wrote was: ‘Though I say good-bye to this house and shall never see
it again, do not forget me, O pillar of the Steadfast Tree!’ As the
carriage drove away the maids looked wistfully at the familiar haunts
that they would in all likelihood never set eyes on again. At this last
moment many a tree, never noticed before, seemed the one place where it
would be pleasant to seek shade when the summer-time came round; and
neither Lady Makibashira nor her ladies ceased to gaze behind them till
the topmost bough of the last tree had faded out of sight. For this
place had been their home for year upon year, and even though they had
been leaving under very different circumstances, they must needs have
forsaken it with many a bitter pang.
Meanwhile their arrival was awaited at Prince Hyōbukyō’s palace with
great trepidation. His wife, sharp-tongued as ever,[29] was bitterly
reproaching him for having fallen out with Genji, whose hostility (she
now made sure) was at the bottom of all their present trouble. ‘It
all began with your miserable cowardice over that Suma affair. You
did not write to him once all the time he was away from Court,
and then were surprised that he would not help you to make an Empress
of our younger daughter. You know quite well why it was that he would
do nothing for you, as you confessed to me at the time and every one
agreed. However, I did think that you had learnt your lesson and would
take the first opportunity of re-establishing yourself in his good
graces. But nothing of the kind. Prince Genji was completely under
the sway of this bastard of yours, Lady Murasaki. Everything is easy
for you. You had only to interest the girl in her sisters—people
in her privileged position are expected to do something for their
relations—and we could have got anything we liked to ask for. Instead
of that, having got into a scrape with this supposed “daughter” of his,
and being under the necessity of passing her off on any one who was
fool enough to take her, he hit upon this simpleton Higekuro, whose
wife, being your daughter, could easily be hustled out of the way. Upon
my honour, I wonder you are willing to sit down under it all....’
‘Silence, woman,’ he broke in. ‘Prince Genji is our lord and master,
and must be spoken of in this house with proper respect. A man of his
intelligence is not as easily wheedled into friendship by one whom he
believes to have done him an injury. My blunder at the time of his
exile has turned out to be a great misfortune for us all. But I was not
the only person to make that mistake. Indeed, if you look round the
Court and note who has gone under and who has kept afloat, you will see
that in every case it depended on what line they took in those Suma
and Akashi days. So meticulous a scheme of punishments and rewards
has surely never before been put into practice. I certainly have not
fared worse than the rest. On the contrary, when a year or two ago I
celebrated my fiftieth birthday,[30] Prince Genji’s interest in
the affair gave it an importance far beyond what my rank and birth
demanded; and this was solely due to his affection for my daughter
Murasaki, a feeling which you accuse me of never having turned to
proper account.’
But his wife’s bitterness only became more intense than ever; moreover,
she began to spread the most scandalous stories about Genji’s conduct
in the affair. And it may be imagined that in these inventions he did
not come off lightly; for hers was the most dangerous tongue in the
whole Court. The removal of his wife and children came as a complete
surprise to Higekuro. He assumed that Lady Makibashira had, in a sudden
fit of childish spleen, implored her father to take this drastic
step. But Prince Hyōbukyō must himself be held largely to blame, for
Makibashira’s mind was in an entirely volatile condition, and if her
father had exercised a little tact she would a few hours later have
been begging him to leave her where she was. ‘This has come as rather a
shock,’ he said to Tamakatsura when he heard the news. ‘Of course, in
a way it makes it much easier for you to come and live with me. But in
any case she is in a condition which would soon have made it absolutely
necessary to shut her up in some outlying wing of the house; and then
you could have lived with me quite comfortably. I resent her being
carried off so suddenly. It implies that I am not looking after her
properly. I shall go at once to her father and complain.’
He was wearing a very handsome cloak lined with willow-green and
blue-grey silken breeches. The costume became him particularly well,
and the waiting-women who saw him pass out on the way to Hyōbukyō’s
palace could not for the lives of them make out why their mistress was
so down upon him.
The news that she had just heard convinced Tamakatsura more firmly
than ever of the folly that she had committed in blindly yielding
herself to such a man, and as he left the room she did not even raise
her eyes to watch him go.
On the way to Prince Hyōbukyō’s he called at his own house. He was met
by Moku no Kimi, who being his personal servant had been left behind,
and from her lips he heard the full story of his wife’s departure. His
distress was obvious, and when she was telling him of the little girl’s
reluctance to leave the house without saying good-bye to him Moku no
Kimi feared that her master would altogether lose his self-possession.
‘Hyōbukyō,’ he said at last, ‘does not in the least realize all that I
patiently endured during the earlier stages of my wife’s insanity. I
do not think there are many men in the world who would have sacrificed
themselves as I did. As regards her happiness, it is doubtful if this
change of residence will make any difference at all, for her mind is
now breaking down entirely. But in any case what sense can there be in
letting her carry off those unfortunate children?...’ Just then his eye
fell upon the little girl’s favourite pillar. He saw that something was
poked into the crack, and grasping at once who had put it there, he
rescued the folded note and put it in his sleeve. On the way to Prince
Hyōbukyō’s palace he read it, obliged to wipe the tears from his eyes
while he did so, for though the handwriting had as yet no beauty, the
sentiment expressed in the child’s poem could not fail to move him.
On his arrival he found that there was no question of his wife or
daughter being allowed to see him. From her parents he received this
message: ‘If your neglect of our daughter were of recent origin, we
might be willing to listen to your protestations, and if satisfactory
assurance were forthcoming might consider the possibility of permitting
her return. But we are fully aware that your affections have for a
long time past been engaged in another quarter, and we see no reason to
suppose that time would bring any amendment to your ways. We therefore
decided to act without delay, and are persuaded that by so doing we
have saved you from much annoyance and discomfort.’ He replied that
they had taken advantage of him in an extremely unfair way. They knew
how great was his affection for the children, and might have assumed
that his feelings towards the mother were at least sufficiently humane
to make it worthwhile discussing this matter with him (many times, if
necessary) before taking so drastic a measure. As it was, the world at
large, which knew nothing of the real facts, must inevitably be led to
the most damaging and at the same time erroneous conclusions.
So he justified himself, but with no effect; and Hyōbukyō would not
even allow the little girl to come out and talk to him. The elder
boy, now ten years old, had already become a page at Court. He was a
fascinating child and much beloved; not exactly handsome, but very
quick-witted and alert. The other, a boy of eight, was particularly
good-looking and bore a strong resemblance to his sister. This child
was now brought to Higekuro, and patting it on the head, he said sadly:
‘It is well that you are so like your sister, for you are all that
I shall see to remind me of her in the years that are to come.’ He
begged Prince Hyōbukyō to accord him even a few moments’ interview.
But the prince excused himself on the ground that ‘he had caught cold
and was at present avoiding all exertion.’ There was nothing for it
but to drive away. His two sons had climbed into the carriage to talk
to him. They now begged for a drive; but as he was going straight to
Tamakatsura’s, this was rather embarrassing. ‘You had better stay
here,’ he said. ‘I will come and see you again soon.’ They gazed after
the carriage, and when they presently saw that instead of going in
the direction of their father’s house it had turned towards the New
Palace, they looked at one another in bewilderment. But once he was
back again in Tamakatsura’s presence, the picture of these two children
staring after him in consternation, the memory of his unhappy wife’s
ravings and contortions, all vanished completely from his mind, and it
was long before he again attempted to get news from his father-in-law’s
house. He felt indeed that he could hardly be expected to risk the
repetition of such a welcome as he had met with last time he called;
but Hyōbukyō insisted upon regarding this abstention as a fresh
offence, and made many caustic remarks concerning Higekuro’s callous
indifference.
‘Even _I_ have been getting into trouble over this business,’ said
Murasaki to Genji one day. ‘My stepmother says I ought not to have let
you upset her daughter’s domestic arrangements!’ ‘It has been very
difficult to know what to do,’ he replied. ‘If it had rested with me
only, I should never have encouraged her to marry Higekuro. But her
father was bent upon it, and I fell in with his desire. The Emperor
was not at all pleased, and one naturally hears it said that all the
other suitors are in a rage with me; though I can hardly believe this
of Prince Sochi, who is such a sensible fellow, that I am sure as soon
as he sees that I have really given Tamakatsura up he will not, despite
his disappointment, be so unreasonable as to pick a quarrel with _me_.
I am very glad that the true nature of my relations with her is now
known. For though I think that in general it is better for people to
keep their private affairs to themselves, there are cases where, unless
all be known, far worse things will be imagined than there is any
warrant for assuming.’
Meanwhile Tamakatsura was taking less trouble than ever to pretend
that Higekuro’s caresses were agreeable to her. But his efforts to
overcome her distaste for him were untiring, and when the time came
for her to spend a few days at the Palace in order to be presented to
the Emperor, Higekuro did his best to prevent or at least postpone
this separation. But it was evident that the Emperor would regard any
further refusal as an act of discourtesy; Genji and Tō no Chūjō both
strongly urged him to obey at once, and Higekuro himself discovered,
on looking into the matter, that there were numberless precedents for
the Emperor’s request. Accordingly he yielded, and in the spring of the
next year she was brought to the Palace. There was a dancing festival
going on at the time, and consequently the ceremonies connected with
her Presentation attracted very little notice. But it was known that
Genji, Tō no Chūjō and Higekuro, the three most powerful men in the
country, were her sponsors; while she was actually attended at the time
of her arrival by Yūgiri and several of her elder brothers, so that
it was by no means likely that she would be overlooked. The room that
was allotted to her was separated only by a covered gallery from the
apartments of Lady Nishi no Miya, Prince Hyōbukyō’s eldest daughter;
but though their habitations were divided by so small a space, their
interests and sympathies could hardly have been farther apart, and no
civilities were exchanged between them.
It happened to be a moment when the scene at Court was simplified
by the absence of low-born favourites or clandestine mistresses.
Four great ladies, Akikonomu, Lady Chūjō, Nishi no Miya (whom I have
just mentioned), and finally a daughter of the Minister of the Left
held absolute sway. Apart from them, two young girls, daughters of
the Junior State Secretary and the Chancellor, enjoyed a certain
prominence; but on the whole the field was remarkably clear.
This year the Mummers[31] visited all the apartments at Court where
they had kinswomen or connections of any kind, and the whole affair
was far more animated and interesting than usual. The reception given
to the dancers in the various quarters they visited was of the most
magnificent kind, such a display of hangings and gay-coloured favours
seldom having been witnessed. One of the most dazzling displays took
place in the rooms of the Crown Prince’s mother, Lady Jōkyōden. The
Prince was still a mere child,[32] but his nursery had already become a
centre of fashionable activities.
After performing before the Emperor, the Mummers visited the quarters
of Lady Akikonomu, and finally finished their round very late in the
day at the ex-Emperor Suzaku’s palace. There had been some talk of
their going on to Genji’s; but it would have been inconvenient to
receive them at such an hour, and he discouraged the visit. On their
way back from Suzaku’s, already much enlivened by the hospitality which
they had received during the course of the evening, they went the round
of the Crown Prince’s apartments, singing the ‘Bamboo River’[33] at the
tops of their voices. Faint streaks of light were already appearing in
the sky when they were joined by a band of young men, which included
some of Tō no Chūjō’s sons and a number of courtiers famous for the
beauty of their voices. The youngest among them all was Chūjō’s eighth
son, who being the child of his legitimate wife, had been brought up
to regard himself as a little person of considerable consequence. He
was a good-looking child, about the same age as Higekuro’s eldest boy,
with whom he was often favourably compared. Unlike many of the other
children who saw the sights that day, he was not at all overawed by
the first appearance at Court of this much-talked-about lady, but on
the contrary stared at her to his fill.
Tamakatsura had not so much experience of Court festivities as was
possessed by most of her rivals and neighbours. She wisely refrained
from venturing upon any unusual or particularly ambitious combinations
of colour. But upon the general lines laid down by the taste of her
competitors, she often achieved a success considerably greater than
theirs. Both she and her gentlewomen found this sojourn at the Palace a
most welcome distraction, and only wished that it might be indefinitely
prolonged.
Wherever they went the Mummers were received with presents of costly
wadded cloaks and a profusion of good things both to eat and drink.
Though it was not at Tamakatsura’s that they were to have their set
banquet, the entertainment she gave them was, by Higekuro’s help, on so
generous a scale that it was hard to recognize in it the mere ‘passing
refreshments,’[34] which it was supposed to represent. Higekuro was
himself on duty at the Palace that day, and said to his wife more than
once during the course of the festivities, ‘There is no need whatever
for you to sleep here a second night; it would look as though you had
changed your mind and meant to stay on in the Palace.’ She did not
answer. But her gentlewomen protested that Genji had only allowed her
to leave the New Palace on the express understanding that she should
pay a leisurely visit to the Emperor, which, considering she had never
once been to Court before and might not go again for a long time, was
the least that ordinary good breeding demanded. To leave so soon as
this would be far too precipitate....
He noted with pain her obvious reluctance to leave a place the
chief charm of which, as he conjectured, lay in the fact that it
afforded her a refuge from his embraces.
Prince Sochi was present when the Mummers performed at the
Palace, and his heart beat wildly as he pressed near the
Lady-of-the-Bedchamber’s[35] office. Knowing that if she recognized a
note as coming from him she would not open it, he found an excuse for
going to Higekuro’s official quarters and sent a messenger from there.
Tamakatsura naturally thought that the note came from her husband,
and reluctantly opened it: ‘Hatefullest of seasons for me has Spring
become, who must stand by and watch the birds of the deep forest folded
wing in wing.’ So ran his poem. She blushed crimson as she read it,
and was just thinking how she could possibly reply, when the Emperor
himself came that way. The moon had risen, and in its full light she
scanned his countenance. He was, she at once noticed, extraordinarily
like Genji, and it was a relief to her to discover that there were
perhaps people in the world who possessed Genji’s beauty yet at the
same time were not cut off from her by fictitious parental ties. But
her guardian had been extremely fond of her, of that there could be no
doubt; whereas this young man unfortunately showed no signs whatever
of feeling for her one particle of the affection which Genji had
attributed to him. His Majesty expressed in a very good-tempered and
considerate way his regret that she had decided not to live permanently
at the Palace. This made her feel extremely uncomfortable; she hid her
face in her sleeve and did not reply. ‘I should like so much to know
what is going on in your mind,’ he said at last. ‘I have a small piece
of news for you which I flattered myself would not be unwelcome. But I
now remember that not answering is a peculiarity of yours.’
He then handed her an acrostic poem in which he at the same time
asked what previous affection on her side had for so long delayed their
meeting, and also announced that she had been promoted to the Third
Rank. ‘I had hoped that in time we might become very close friends,’
he added. ‘But I see that you hold a different view.’ There came into
his voice as he said these few words a new tone, which proved to her
in an instant that the Emperor’s feelings as well as his outward
appearance were after all uncommonly like those of Genji. Her heart
leapt, and she replied with the poem: ‘Of what former love you speak
I know not; but henceforward him alone I serve who put the purple on
my sleeve.’[36] ‘It is now my duty to earn what hitherto I have done
so little to deserve,’ she said timidly. At this he laughed. ‘No,’
he said, ‘you have got your reward, and you had better make the most
of it. I did not mean it as a bribe. But I think that any reasonable
person would admit I had come very badly out of the business....’ He
spoke lightly, but it was evident that he was genuinely piqued. ‘This
is dreadful,’ thought poor Tamakatsura. ‘Will a handsome man never fall
in love with me without saying in the same breath that we must part for
ever?’ Evidently he regarded her marriage as a fatal bar to friendship.
She became very staid in her manner. Noting this, the Emperor feared
that he had shocked her, and made up his mind (for he had by no means
abandoned the idea of continuing the acquaintance) henceforth to
advance more cautiously.
Meanwhile it reached Higekuro’s ears that the Emperor was with her,
and falling into a panic he again began scheming to carry her home at
the earliest possible moment. Nor did she attempt to dissuade him,
for repeated disasters had at last destroyed in her all capacity for
resistance. Higekuro invented one pretext after another for her
instant removal, and when each in turn had been easily disposed of,
he tried to enlist the help of Tō no Chūjō and others of the Court
Council. At last the Imperial sanction was obtained. ‘I see that I
had better let her go,’ said the young Emperor good-humouredly. ‘If
I keep her now, Higekuro will not allow her to come here again; and
I am hoping for frequent visits. I think I am right in saying that I
first began to take interest in her long before Prince Higekuro set
eyes upon her. But he got to work much more quickly than I, and fully
deserves the advantage which he has gained.... I have an idea that
there was a famous case[37] of this kind in years gone by, but cannot
now recall the names.’ When he had seen her in the distance years ago
his curiosity had been aroused, and he had felt that she might be
worth getting to know. But at close quarters he found her far more
attractive than he had imagined or been led by those who knew her
to suppose. He could not now forgive himself for having handled the
affair so incompetently. Having at one moment determined to give her
confidence by slow stages, he felt at the next that he had not made his
sentiments sufficiently plain, and plunged into the most impassioned
and hectic avowals. She could not help thinking how well her own state
of mind matched that of the lady to whose story the Emperor had already
referred.
Meanwhile the letters of several public men who were seeking audience
with his Majesty had for some time been waiting in the corridor, and
just outside the door Higekuro stood officiously mounting sentry over
the apartment. ‘I know he is an officer in the Bodyguard,’ said the
Emperor, annoyed by his persistency, ‘but I think that on this occasion
he is performing his professional duties rather too thoroughly.’
At parting he gave her the poem: ‘Because the Ninefold Hedge of
royalty girds me about, not even the scent of the plum-blossom, nay,
not even so much[38] is carried to the steps of my Throne.’ Not a
very remarkable poem, as on later reflection she would easily have
perceived; but at the time it seemed to her a masterly performance.
‘Higekuro,’ the Emperor added, ‘is like the man who “went to gather
violets”; I cannot expect that he should be willing even for the
briefest space to “quit the fields of Spring.”[39] Nor have I the heart
to ask it of him. Henceforward I shall not attempt to approach you....’
She could not but admire his delicacy of feeling: ‘Though the scent of
this blossom be not as that of others that grow upon the tree, yet even
so much let the wind carry to and from your Throne.’[40] It cost him
much to part from her for the last time as he supposed, and it was with
many backward glances that he now left her room.
Higekuro was determined that she should not sleep another night at
the Palace. He knew that if he broached the matter beforehand to his
colleagues on the Council they would certainly refuse to countenance
so precipitate a step. Accordingly, without mentioning the matter to
anybody, he went straight to Tamakatsura and said: ‘I have suddenly
caught a severe chill, and it is essential that I should go at once
to some place where I can be properly looked after. There is nothing
so awkward as being ill in other people’s houses.’ He spoke in such a
weak, plaintive tone that she felt quite sorry for him. A few hours
later she was already installed in Higekuro’s house.
Her father Tō no Chūjō soon heard of this. He was not best pleased,
for he feared that the Emperor would regard so sudden a flight as very
discourteous. But on the whole he was glad he had not been consulted,
for he had no desire to quarrel with Higekuro over so small a matter.
In fact, as he usually did when things went wrong, he chose to regard
it as Genji’s affair rather than his own; and Genji, although this
sudden termination of his tutelage over the girl came as a great shock
to him, naturally did not feel called upon to interfere.
Higekuro, though in his heart of hearts he knew that Tamakatsura had
no more chosen this destiny than the smoke from the salt-kilns chooses
to be blown back across the hill, was so much elated by his success
that for the moment her contempt for him did not in the least spoil his
pleasure. His state of mind was indeed that of some brigand chief who
has carried off an unwilling bride at his saddle-croup. He did indeed
scold her for having remained closeted so long with the Emperor. This
seemed to her insufferably petty and vindictive on Higekuro’s part.
Henceforward she took less and less pains even to keep up in public
the appearance of being on any kind of terms with him. He was also
cut off from all intercourse with Prince Hyōbukyō’s family. He tried
to give the impression that he regarded this as no great loss; but in
reality he felt this isolation acutely. However, he did not attempt to
communicate with the Prince, and henceforward spent the whole of his
time in lavishing unwanted attentions upon his new-won prize.
To Genji, who had for months past been preparing himself for
Tamakatsura’s departure, her loss came as a far greater blow than he
had ever anticipated. It was not indeed her departure (he explained
to himself) that he found difficult to bear, but the suddenness and
completeness with which Higekuro had taken possession. But be that as
it may, he could not for an instant stop thinking about her, and soon
fell into a condition of absent-mindedness and melancholy that was
observed by all who met him. It is said that whatever happens to us
is ruled by our conduct in previous existences, or, as others would
express it, by Fate. But it seemed to Genji that for the miseries into
which he constantly found himself plunged, no other person or power
could possibly be held responsible. They sprang from his own excessive
susceptibility, and from no other cause whatever. He longed to write
to her; but it seemed impossible, now that she was in the hands of
the grim, unbending Higekuro, to address to her the small humours and
absurdities of which their correspondence was usually composed. In the
second month a period of heavy rain set in; after the ceremonies of
the New Year this season is apt to seem rather flat and stale, and,
desperately in need of distraction, Genji broke all his resolutions and
called at Prince Higekuro’s house. He knew, however, that there was no
chance of his seeing her personally, and though it was painful to him,
who had been used to spend hour after hour in her company, merely to
send in a note, this was the most he dared to attempt. And even so,
despite the fact that he was able to get hold of the old nurse Ukon
and send the letter through her, he thought it unwise to send a closed
note and was therefore obliged to express himself in the most guarded
manner, trusting that she would be able to read between the lines. ‘In
these dull days when hour on hour the spring rain spills upon the quiet
earth, do you at times recall the people and the palace whence you
came?’ So he wrote, adding: ‘This is a dreary season at best; and worse
than ever for me, who am tormented by longings and recollections
of which I cannot now speak.’ Ukon took the letter and succeeded in
conveying it to Tamakatsura at one of the rare moments when Higekuro
was absent from her side. The old woman, of course, knew nothing of
Genji’s sentiments towards her mistress, who had never breathed to any
one a word concerning his occasional indiscretions and excesses; but
watching Tamakatsura’s face as she read the letter Ukon now guessed a
good deal of the truth. But exactly how much had happened between them?
That was a question about which Ukon henceforward frequently puzzled
her head; but she was unable to reach any conclusion.
Throughout this time Genji was constantly reminded of his separation
from Oborozuki[41] at the time when she became Consort of the Emperor
Suzaku. She too was Lady-of-the-Bedchamber; she too was carried away
and locked up in a place whither it was impossible for him to pursue
her. He remembered having been very unhappy then, but nothing like so
miserable as he was now. Was it that he was becoming more and more
sentimental, he asked himself, or merely that the sufferings of the
moment always seem more acute than those which we conjure up out of the
past? But whether or no the miseries of to-day were really worse than
those of yesterday, of this much he was sure, that from none of his
divagations had anything but torment and agitation ever ensued. Well,
it was all over now; henceforward his existence would be free from
these devastating entanglements, and no doubt he would be a great deal
happier than ever before. But for the moment it was not so very easy as
he had imagined to begin this new life of resignation and tranquillity.
He thought he would make use of the bad weather to practise a little
on his zithern; but no sooner did he take it into his hands than
he began to recall how Tamakatsura had played this and that phrase or
run at the time when he was giving her a lesson every day. To break the
spell of these recollections he tuned his instrument to the Eastern
Mode and played the old song ‘Let the weeds grow.’[42] Could she have
seen him as he sat playing that lovely air, it would have been strange
indeed if she had not wished herself back in her late home.
The young Emperor too, though their acquaintance had been so brief,
could not get Tamakatsura out of his head. ‘As she went by, trailing
the skirts of her crimson gown....’[43] For some reason these words
haunted him, though the poem could scarcely be more ill-sounding
and crude than it is; and he too began to contrive secret ways of
communicating with her. But she had long ago made up her mind that
happiness was not to be her fate, and could not bring herself to toy
with it by the familiar interchange of pretty thoughts and images.
Letter after letter arrived; but in her replies she never went beyond
a formal acknowledgment. Often she remembered with gratitude Genji’s
untiring devotion to her interests and comforts. What matter if he fell
between the two extremes of parent and lover? No one, she felt sure,
would ever look after her as he had done.
It was now the third month. The wisteria and mountain-kerria in the
gardens of the New Palace were in full bloom, loveliest of all at
evening, when the light of the setting sun slanted through the hanging
sprays of delicate blossom. This was a moment of the year that had
always given him an intense delight; but now it hardly seemed to
move him. He left Murasaki’s domain and made his way to the western
garden.[44] Here too the mountain-kerria was in magnificent bloom.
In especial he noticed a great trail of it that hung across a clump
of Chinese bamboos and recited to himself the poem: ‘O mountain
flower that lovest to grow upon the rocks,[45] thou shalt teach me to
endure in silence,[45] the love that I must hide.’ Never before had
he repented so bitterly of his determination to surrender the girl
into other hands. It had seemed while she was with him so easy to be
wise, to make self-sacrificing resolutions. But now that he had lost
her it was incredible that he could ever have deliberately planned
and executed so terrible a disaster. He happened to notice that there
were a lot of eggs in the pigeon-house, and arranging them prettily
in a basket along with oranges and lemons he sent it as a present to
Tamakatsura, not with any very definite intention.[46] When Higekuro
saw the basket with its accompanying note, he burst out laughing: ‘What
an extraordinary man this Genji is!’ he said. ‘Why, even if he were
your real father he could not now that you are married expect to meet
you except on particular occasions. What does he want? He seems, in one
way or another, to be always complaining that he does not see you.’ She
did not seem to have any intention of acknowledging the gift, and as
the messenger was still waiting, Higekuro said: ‘Let me answer it for
you!’ ‘I am not minded that any should reclaim her, this fledgling that
was not counted among the brood of either nest.’ Such was the poem he
sent, and he added: ‘My wife was surprised at the nature of your
gift, and was at a loss how to reply without seeming to attach an undue
importance to it....’
Genji laughed when the note was brought to him. ‘I have never known
Higekuro stoop to concern himself in such trifles as this,’ he said.
‘What is the world coming to?’ But in his heart he was deeply offended
by the arrogantly possessive tone of Higekuro’s letter.
As the months went by Lady Makibashira became more and more deeply
buried in her own dark and frightful thoughts. Soon she seemed to be
gradually lapsing into complete helplessness and imbecility. Higekuro
enquired after her constantly and did everything in his power to
make her comfortable, incurring considerable outlay on her behalf,
and indeed watching over her practical interests exactly as he would
have done if she had still been at home. He continued to be devotedly
attached to his children, but Prince Hyōbukyō would not allow him
to see the little girl. The boys, however, were constantly at their
father’s house, and came back chattering about ‘such a nice, new lady’
who had come to live there. ‘She knows all sorts of lovely games and
plays with us all day,’ they said. The little girl stared at them
open-eyed, having formed in her mind a very different picture of the
woman whom her present guardians represented always as the unscrupulous
monster who had ruined their father’s home. But in reality it was not
surprising that Tamakatsura should have won the boys’ hearts, for she
possessed an extraordinary faculty for making herself liked by people
of all sorts and ages wherever she went.
In the eleventh month of that year she bore Higekuro a handsome boy.
The father’s delight knew no bounds, and the solicitude with which
he watched over both mother and child can easily be imagined. Tō no
Chūjō too rejoiced that the match should be turning out so unqualified
a success and felt that he had acted very wisely in recommending
it. And certainly, he said to himself, she deserved a success, for she
possessed quite as much charm as the sisters over whom he had taken a
great deal more trouble. Kashiwagi too was glad that all seemed to be
going well, for he had settled down into the position of an extremely
helpful and admiring brother. Perhaps, however, he still cared for
her with something more than brotherly affection; he had a feeling
that he would have preferred the child to be some one else’s rather
than Higekuro’s; for example, if only she had borne such a child (so
he reflected as he gazed at the infant) to the Emperor Ryōzen, who
constantly lamented that he had no children, what a future might have
been in store for it!
After her recovery Tamakatsura continued to administer the business
of the Bedchamber from her husband’s house, and seemed to show no
intention of ever again appearing at the Palace. There were precedents
for such an arrangement as this, and no exception could well be taken
to it.
But to go back a little. In the autumn of this year Tō no
Chūjō’s eccentric daughter, foiled in her ambition to become
Lady-of-the-Bedchamber, added to the embarrassment of her relations
by a series of the most flutter-brained flirtations. Her sister Lady
Chūjō lived in a constant state of agitation, convinced that sooner or
later this Lady of Ōmi would get into some scrape of a kind which might
seriously compromise the whole family. She saw no reason why she should
be saddled with so needless a responsibility and begged her father
to intervene. Tō no Chūjō accordingly sent for her and warned her as
impressively as he could that she must in future stay in her sister’s
rooms and not wander all over the house, as she had lately developed
the habit of doing. This remonstrance, however, had no effect, and
she was soon causing as much anxiety as ever to her unwilling sponsors.
It happened one day that a number of distinguished courtiers had come
to the house; it was an autumn night of exceptional beauty, music was
in progress, and every one was in uncommonly good spirits. Even Yūgiri,
usually so quiet and orderly, was talking in rather an excited manner.
Some one amid the group of ladies at the end of the room pointed him
out to her neighbour and made some remark to the effect that she had
never seen him look so handsome. ‘Handsome! Who’s handsome?’ screamed
a piercing voice, the owner of which suddenly craned her neck in the
direction indicated; and before any one could stop her the Lady of
Ōmi had pressed her way to the front of the throng, where she stood
staring at Yūgiri open-mouthed, while every one present wondered
what hideous piece of folly or impertinence would shortly issue from
those ecstatically parted lips. But all she did was to point at the
embarrassed Yūgiri and say in a voice which, though it was meant to be
a whisper, was audible all over the room: ‘Look at that one, now, just
look at him!’ And she recited in a ringing voice the poem:
If your ship is lost at sea
And you cannot land where you’d like to be,
You’d better come aboard of me.[47]
‘Like the man who lost his rudder said, when he found himself at the
same place where he started: “It all comes to the same thing in the
end,”’ she added encouragingly.
Who on earth could, this extraordinary madcap be, wondered poor Yūgiri,
when suddenly he recollected the queer stories that had a little while
ago been current about some odd girl whom Tō no Chūjō had adopted. This
of course must be she, and laughing, he answered her with the poem:
Though my good ship should split in two,
I’d rather be drowned with all my crew
Than trust my life to one like you.
That does not sound very kind, she thought.
[24] One of Tamakatsura’s maids.
[25] Prince Higekuro.
[26] The soul of a woman is helped across the Stream of Death by the
spectre of her first lover.
[27] While Makibashira, Higekuro’s mad wife, was still there.
[28] In order to drive the ‘possession’ out of her.
[29] For this woman’s character see vol. i, p. 145. She had pursued her
rival, Murasaki’s mother, ‘with constant vexations and affronts; day in
and day out this obstinate persecution continued, till at last she died
of heart-break.’
[30] See vol. iii, p. 139.
[31] See vol. iii, p. 24.
[32] He must by now be about eleven, having been born shortly before
Genji’s exile.
[33] See vol. iii, p. 215.
[34] ‘Mizu-umaya,’ or water-stabling, as it was technically called
by the dancers. The regular banquet was called ‘ii-umaya,’ or
rice-stabling.
[35] Tamakatsura.
[36] Promoted her to the Third Rank.
[37] In the 9th century Fujiwara no Tokihira carried off a lady who had
for some time been admired by Taira no Sadabumi. When reproached by
Sadabumi for her fickleness, the lady replied: ‘What in waking hours I
may have promised I know not; but now I wander in the mazes of a dream;
or _some one_ wanders, for I scarce think it can be I.’
[38] _Ka bakari_ means ‘so much,’ and also ‘only the scent.’
[39] Allusion to a poem by Yamabe no Akahito (8th century).
[40] I.e. write to me sometimes.
[41] Vol. ii, p. 54.
[42] ‘The water-weeds that grow in the pool on the plain of Oshitaka
where wild doves feed—do not cut them at the root, for they will not
grow again. Do not cut them at the root.’
[43] ‘Outdoors I think, at home I think of how she looked that day as
she went by trailing the skirts of her crimson gown.’ _Manyōshū_ 2550.
A very rough, primitive poem.
[44] Tamakatsura’s former apartments.
[45]_Iwa_—‘rock’ and ‘silent.’
[46] But there is a hint that Tamakatsura is shut away in Higekuro’s
palace like a tame bird in a cage. The bird mentioned is really a kind
of duck, but much smaller. ‘Duck’s eggs’ would give a wholly wrong
visual impression.
[47] If you can’t have Kumoi, why not marry me?
CHAPTER IV
THE SPRAY OF PLUM-BLOSSOM
Although it was early days to begin thinking about the little
Akashi Princess’s Initiation, Genji seemed bent upon celebrating it
immediately. The Heir Apparent’s Putting on of the Trousers was to
take place in the second month, and it was perhaps Genji’s wish that
the girl should go to the Palace as soon as the little prince set up a
separate establishment. Towards the end of the first month, a moment
when there is very little going on at home or abroad, Genji held an
inspection of the perfumes and incenses that were to be used, at the
Initiation. He first looked through the scents that had recently been
forwarded to the Capital by the Governor of Tsukushi. He soon came to
the conclusion that these modern importations fell far behind what used
to reach this country in former times, and opening his storehouses at
the Nijō-in he brought out all the old Chinese perfumes he could find
and had them carried to his New Palace. ‘With perfumes,’ he said, ‘it
is just as it is with embroideries and woven brocades. The old ones are
far better workmanship than anything that is turned out to-day.’ So
saying, he began to look out for likely pieces of embroidery and gold
brocade; for many would be wanted to fringe the box-covers, carpets
and cushions used in the ceremony of Presentation at the Palace.
Luckily he came upon some particularly fine pieces presented to his
father, the late Emperor, by the Korean soothsayers who had come to
Court in the earlier part of his reign.[48] These so far excelled
what was now imported that he determined to make use only of ancient
pieces, and distributed among his friends[49] the stuffs sent in for
the occasion by the Governor of Tsukushi. But with the perfumes to be
used at the Initiation such a method was impossible, for the stock of
ancient perfumes would soon have run out. In distributing a supply of
perfumes to the various members of his household, he therefore ordered
that new and old should be mixed. Then there were the presents to be
got ready, for no one who came to the Initiation could be allowed to
go away without some small gift; and in addition to these there were
the particular rewards granted to the princes and noblemen who took
the leading part in the affair. Both at the New Palace and at the
Nijō-in there was such a bustle as seldom before, accompanied, in every
quarter of each establishment, by a continual jingling of pestle and
mortar[50] Meanwhile Genji, who by some means or other had contrived to
get hold of two secret recipes very jealously guarded by the Emperor
Nimmyō,[51] and thought never to have been transmitted to any of his
descendants, was locked away in his own rooms, completely absorbed in
certain mysterious experiments. Murasaki, not to be outdone, succeeded
in discovering a recipe that had belonged to Prince Motoyasu, the
son of Nimmyō, and ensconcing herself in a secret closet behind the
double-doors of the Great Bedroom, refused to give any information as
to what was afoot, though, as Genji remarked, he would soon know how
she was getting on by the scent that emanated from her hiding-place.
Indeed they both threw themselves into the thing with such abandon
that it was hard to believe they were to play the part of dignified
elders at the coming ceremony. Both he and she were obliged to
seek the assistance of a few chosen attendants; for even when the
perfumes were made there was still a great deal of work to be done.
Such exquisite scents could not be crammed into any stray vessel that
lay handy. Hours were spent in selecting jars of appropriate shape,
incense-burners incised with an exactly suitable flower-pattern, boxes
that would not disgrace the marvels they were to contain. And to add
to their difficulties, there must be a touch of novelty, a suggestion
of surprise, about every article. Meanwhile similar scenes were in
progress throughout the New Palace and the Nijō-in, each competitor
straining every nerve to produce a blend which should attract the
notice of her fastidious patron.
On the tenth day of the second month there was a little rain, not more
than was needed to bring to perfection the smell and colour of the
red plum-blossom in front of Genji’s palace. Prince Sochi had heard
of the existing preparations which were afoot, and being on intimate
terms with the household, ventured to call, though he knew that every
one must be very busy. After talking of one thing and another, he went
out with Genji to look at the flowers; suddenly a messenger arrived,
bearing a letter tied to a spray of half-scattered plum-blossom.
He announced that he came from Princess Asagao, the former Vestal
Virgin. Sochi had heard of Genji’s admiration for this lady: ‘What
does she say?’ he asked. ‘I hope you are beginning to make a little
progress.’ Genji smiled. ‘It is a business letter,’ he said. ‘She has
heard that we are all making perfumes, and as she has had a good deal
of experience in that line, she gives me a few hints.’ So saying, he
quickly hid the letter. But there was evidently some truth in his
account, for the messenger had also brought a cedar-wood box containing
two glass bowls, each filled with large balls of incense. One was
of blue glass, and on this there was a five-pointed pine-leaf pattern;
the other was of white glass, carved with a plum-blossom spray. Even
the cord with which the box was tied had evidently been chosen with the
greatest care, and was delightfully soft to the touch. ‘What an elegant
affair!’ exclaimed Prince Sochi, staring hard at the box. He was able
as he did so to decipher the poem which was attached to it: ‘Though,
like the plum-branch that I send, these perfumes have small fragrance
of their own, yet worn by you they will not lack for regal scent....’
The entertainment of the messenger was entrusted to Yūgiri, who plied
him with drink, and as payment for his trouble gave him a close-fitting
Chinese lady’s gown, red plum-blossom colour without, yellow within.
For his reply Genji chose paper of the same colour as the blossom she
had sent, and attached the letter to a spray from the aforementioned
trees in front of his own window. ‘I can imagine what sort of thing he
is writing,’ thought Sochi as he watched Genji compose the answer. ‘But
I really wonder that, after all the confidences we have exchanged, he
should think it necessary to be so secretive,’ and he wondered whether
there were not some additional mystery beyond what he could possibly
surmise. ‘I can see you think you have scented a mystery,’ said Genji.
‘You are quite wrong; there is no corner of my heart which I am not
willing you should explore.’ Genji’s poem ran: ‘Only too profoundly
does the scent of your blossoms stir me, though lest the world should
see my weakness I have hidden their fragrance deep within the folds of
my dress.’
‘You will think,’ he said, turning to Prince Sochi, ‘that we are
making a great deal too much fuss over the coming celebration. For my
part I excuse myself on the ground that she is my only daughter. I am
under no delusions about her looks or intelligence, and did not
like to trouble any outside person to come and stand sponsor for her
at the ceremony. The Empress Akikonomu, who is staying here on leave
from the Palace, has kindly consented to undertake the task, and it
is in deference to her position that I am doing everything in proper
style.’ ‘I am so glad you got hold of the Empress,’ said Prince Sochi;
‘I think it is a very good idea; for we all hope that your little
girl will one day occupy the position that Akikonomu holds now.’ At
this moment messengers arrived from all the various quarters of the
establishment where the blending of perfumes had been in progress, for
Genji had decided that the last time to make trial of them was when
the evening air began to grow damp. ‘You must help me to judge these
perfumes,’ said Genji to his brother. ‘I am sure there is no one who
knows more about it than you.’ The incense-burners were brought, and
though Prince Sochi protested that this was not at all in his line, he
was soon amazing every one present by the incredible delicacy of his
perceptions. He would say of some perfume the ingredients of which were
quite unknown to him: ‘There is a fraction too much cloves in this,’
or of another: ‘Just a trifle too little aloes.’ He never made any
sweeping criticism, but established a sufficient number of small points
to allow of arranging the competitors, all of whom would to any common
critic have seemed equally unimpeachable, in a definite and justified
order of precedence.
When this was over, Genji’s two secret blends were at last submitted
to the light of day. Just as the Emperor Nimmyō had on a famous
occasion buried his incense at the edge of the moat near the barracks
of the Bodyguard of the Right, so Genji had now buried his two secret
compounds under the bank of a little stream that ran out near the
western cross-gallery of his palace. Koremitsu’s son Hyōye no Jō
was now sent to dig them up, and they were finally laid before Prince
Sochi by Yūgiri. ‘No, no,’ said Sochi. ‘The room is getting too smoky.
In such an atmosphere it is quite impossible to go on judging....’
But nothing could be done, for in every quarter of the house the
manufacture of incense had been proceeding so busily that the air
was laden with perfume. The Prince went on sniffing bravely, and the
subtlety with which, even under such adverse circumstances, he detected
small merits and defects, won universal applause. Though there was very
little to choose between the different _kurobō_ submitted, on the whole
Princess Asagao’s was declared to be the best, for it combined the
strong fragrance usual to this species with a delightful delicacy and
mildness. Among the various _jijū_ incenses, Genji’s easily came out
on top, for it was indeed an extraordinarily delightful and intriguing
mixture. Murasaki had submitted three kinds. It was agreed that her
_baikwa_ was a more distinctive and ingenious blend than the other two;
Prince Sochi was full of enthusiasm for it, saying he could imagine no
incense that would mix so well with the prevailing scent of the air at
this season.
The Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers, thinking that if she
allowed the gentlewomen under her control to send in a variety of
perfumes the task of the judges would be tiresomely complicated and
lengthy (for even in such a matter as this she did not fail to show her
usual modesty), sent in only one kind of incense, the sort called Lotus
Leaf, but of a very delicate and subtle variety, which seemed to Genji
characteristic of her unassuming personality. The Lady from Akashi, who
presided over the Winter Garden, and might have been expected to offer
an incense appropriate to her own season, was not inclined to risk so
direct a challenge to the mistresses of Summer and Spring. Fortunately
she remembered a recipe that had been invented by Minamoto no
Kintada[52] with the help of notes inherited from the Emperor Uda.[53]
This by itself would have sufficed to win considerable approbation;
but she also succeeded in recollecting the ingredients of the famous
Hundred Steps Incense,[54] and Sochi was obliged to pronounce each of
those contributions deserving of the highest honours. ‘Our judge is
losing his subtlety,’ complained Genji, ‘and is obliged to fall back
upon praising everything indiscriminately.’
The moon had now risen. Supper was served, and afterwards stories were
told by various members of the party. A slight mist veiled the moon
with the most entrancing effect. The rain of the morning had left a
slight breeze in its trail, that continually wafted into the already
thickly perfumed rooms of the house fresh perfumes from the trees in
the garden. From the Music Room came sounds of flute and string, for
a practice was in progress, music being destined to play an important
part in the ceremonies of the ensuing day. Many courtiers had arrived,
and there was a noise of zitherns being got into trim, and an agreeable
meandering of flutes. Tō no Chūjō’s sons Kashiwagi and Kōbai had come
merely to make the formal announcement of their intention to take part
in to-morrow’s proceedings. But they were now prevailed upon to stay
and join in the music, Genji himself providing the instruments. At the
same time he set a lute in front of Prince Sochi, and himself sent for
his great Chinese zithern. Kashiwagi played upon the _wagon_,[55] and
so a quite interesting combination was possible. Yūgiri then played
upon the cross-flute, choosing airs appropriate to the season; away
went the shrill notes on their journey to the country of the
clouds. It will be remembered that Kashiwagi’s brother Kōbai was famous
for his voice. It was he who as a boy sang the Ballad of Takasago at
the time of the rhyme-covering competitions. He now sang _Umegaye_:
‘Look, to a bough of the plum-tree the nightingale has come to tell
us that Spring is here. But though he sings, but though he sings, the
snow is falling fast.’ Genji and his brother joined in the refrain,
and though more practice would have been required to make the thing a
complete success, it afforded a very agreeable evening’s entertainment.
When the wine was handed round Prince Sochi recited the verse: ‘To
an ecstasy the “Song of the nightingale” has carried us, who by the
beauty of the snow-white boughs already were enthralled.’ To which
Genji replied: ‘Prince, if this springtime no other beacon guide you
to my house, let these frail flowers suffice to bring you back before
their time is passed.’ So saying he handed the cup to Kashiwagi,
who addressing Yūgiri recited the verse: ‘Play shrilly once again
the flute-songs of the night, lest on his bed of flowers the weary
nightingale should fall asleep.’ And Yūgiri: ‘Ask me not to shake with
the shrill blast of piping those flowers that even the wild Spring wind
had not the heart to stir.’ At this whimsical excuse every one laughed.
When it came to Kōbai’s turn, he sang: ‘Did not the mists of Spring
enfold both earth and sky, the birds that sleep so sound had long ago
burst out into their clamorous daybreak song.’ And true enough, the
first streaks of light were already appearing in the eastern sky.
Sochi announced that he must go at once. As a reward for his services
in judging at the competition Genji gave him a cloak from his own
wardrobe and two jars of incense which had been left unopened during
the trials. These were put in his carriage, and finding them there,
Sochi improvised the poem: ‘Incense and fine clothes! What gifts
are these for an honest man to carry home at dawn?’ ‘You must not be so
frightened of your family,’ laughed Genji, waiting beside the carriage
while the bulls were being yoked; and he answered Sochi with the poem;
‘Well can I believe it, dear friend, that your family will rub their
eyes at seeing you come home with so decent a coat upon your back.’
Sochi, who thought himself a very well-dressed man, did not take this
in very good part. The other guests also received small presents in
memory of the occasion—a gown, a brocaded under-robe, or the like.
The ceremony of Initiation took place in Akikonomu’s rooms in the
evening of the next day. The company arrived at the hour of the
Dog.[56] The Empress herself was in the small side-room behind the
double-doors at the western end of the corridor, and here she was soon
joined by the gentlewomen entrusted with the dressing of the Initiate’s
hair. For this room had been set apart as her dressing-place. Murasaki
was also there, and as both ladies were attended by a full complement
of gentlewomen-in-waiting, there was not much room to spare. The little
Princess herself did not arrive till the hour of the Rat,[57] when
the actual Tying of the Belt took place. The room was lit only by the
flickering rays of the great lamp in the corridor outside; but, from
what she could see of the child, Akikonomu (who happened not to have
come across her before) made her out to be very good-looking. Genji,
however, whispered many apologies for her. ‘I knew you would help me,’
he said. ‘But of course the child is nothing out of the ordinary, and
it seems a shame to give you all this trouble. You are doing what I
suppose no Empress has ever done before....’ ‘I thought nothing of
coming, and indeed imagined it would be a mere family affair. If
it is on my account that you have done things on this grand style, I
assure you it is I not you who ought to feel embarrassed.’ She looked
so charming and still so young as she made this polite speech that
Genji congratulated himself upon an occasion which, if it possessed no
other importance, had at least the merit of bringing together in one
room so many delightful women.
He would very much have liked the child’s mother to take part in the
ceremony, for he knew that it would pain her deeply not to be invited;
but as the girl had been formally adopted by Murasaki, it was hard to
see in what capacity the Lady from Akashi could be summoned, and very
reluctantly he abandoned the idea.
For Tō no Chūjō it was extremely galling to hear the accounts of all
these preparations and festivities. His own daughter Lady Kumoi was now
at the height of her beauty, and to see her wasting her youth and charm
in the dull seclusion of the home, while the Akashi girl’s success
was being bruited on every side, was naturally very hard for him to
bear. Yūgiri’s attachment to her seemed neither to have ripened nor,
on the other hand, declined. To do anything that savoured of a wish to
negotiate with him might now only lead to a humiliating rebuff—a risk
that had not existed in the days when Yūgiri’s passion was still open
and declared. He felt that he had let things drift too far, and was
indeed in these days more angry with himself than with Yūgiri.
The young man heard that his uncle no longer spoke of him with any
asperity; but the harshness of years was not so easy to forget,
and Yūgiri could not bring himself to plead for the termination of
a quarrel which had been entirely of Chūjō’s making. He therefore
continued to behave exactly as before. Not but what his fidelity
suffered at one time and another from considerable strains and
stresses. Naturally it did; but he could never forget the day upon
which her nurses had taunted him with his light-blue dress, and he was
determined that until he could come forward as a full-blown Counsellor
he would make no further advances.
Genji disapproved extremely of the boy’s solitary and unsettled mode of
existence. Some time ago he had received a hint from the Minister of
the Right that a proposition from Yūgiri would not be unwelcome; and
now a similar intimation had come from a certain Prince Nakatsukasa....
Surely the boy would not allow a childish attachment to stand in the
way of such solid alliances as these? He told Yūgiri of the two offers.
‘One or the other you must certainly accept,’ he said. ‘Try to make up
your mind as quickly as you can.’ Yūgiri did not answer, but merely
waited respectfully for his father to continue. ‘I know that, in a way,
it is rather absurd for me to advise you about things of this kind,’
Genji said after a pause. ‘I remember how tiresome I used to find my
father the old Emperor’s lectures on these and similar subjects. But I
assure you that, irritating as it was at the time, his advice generally
turned out to be perfectly sound, and I wish I had more often followed
it.... But what I wanted to say to you now was this: your present
unsettled way of living is doing your reputation a great deal of harm.
Naturally every one assumes that a previous attachment of some kind is
holding you back, and the impression most people are likely to get is
that you have got tied up with some one so low-born or discreditable
that you cannot possibly introduce her into your family. I know that
this idea is the opposite of the truth; indeed no one could possibly
accuse you of aiming too low. But it is now perfectly clear that you
cannot get what you want.... Under such circumstances the only
thing to do is to take what one can get, and make the best of it.
‘I myself had just the same sort of trouble at your age. But things
were even worse; for in the Palace one is hedged round by all kinds
of rules and restrictions. All eyes were upon me, and I knew that
the slightest indication on my part would be eagerly seized upon and
exploited by those who stood to gain by my undoing. In consequence
of this I was always extremely careful.... Yes. In spite of all my
precautions I did once get into trouble, and it even looked at one time
as though I had ruined myself for good and all. I was still low in rank
then and had not particularly distinguished myself in any way. I felt
that I was free to do as I chose, and that if things went wrong I had
not much to lose. As a matter of fact it is just at such a moment in
life that one makes the most far-reaching and irreparable mistakes;
for it is then that passion is at its strongest, while the checks and
restraints, that in middle age inevitably protect us against the wilder
forms of folly, have not yet come into play. To suggest that you need
advice on this subject is in no way derogatory to your intelligence;
for in their relations with women people who show the utmost good sense
in other matters seem constantly to get into the most inextricable
mess. One of the difficulties is that we tend to be attracted precisely
by those people with whom it is most impossible that we should be
permanently connected. I can think of a case in which the lady’s
reputation was fatally injured and the man’s happiness destroyed, not
only in this world but probably in the next, by the fierce resentment
which she bore against him in consequence of this youthful indiscretion.
‘And one thing more: suppose you get married and find that the match
is not altogether a success. There will be moments at which you will
be tempted to throw the whole thing over. But do not act rashly.
Think out the situation afresh each time that it appears to you
insupportable. Probably you will find that there is a very good reason
for hanging on a little longer. Even if you have lost all affection for
the lady herself, you may perhaps feel that for the sake of her parents
you ought to make one more effort.... Or even if she has no parents or
other supporters to whom you are under an obligation, you will very
likely find on reflection that she has some small trick of speech or
manner that still attracts you. It will in the end possibly be best
both for you and for her if you can keep things going even in the most
precarious way.’
So at moments of leisure used Genji to admonish the young man, never
with any note of asperity in his tone. Nor did he once go beyond the
vaguest general reflections and reminiscences.
The suggestion that at his father’s advice he should at once transfer
his affections to some quarter where they would be more acceptable
struck Yūgiri as the most gratuitous piece of folly imaginable. Let
them compel him if they chose, but at least refrain from insulting his
love by veiling such senseless propositions under the cloak of kindness.
Meanwhile Kumoi noticed that her father, who for a long time past
had eyed her with a strangely sorrowful look, now gazed at her more
mournfully than ever. She felt that through her own fault something
had gone wrong with her life, and ceased soon to hope for any kind of
happiness; but outwardly she showed no signs of this despair and seemed
content to let her youth slip by unmarked. Yūgiri’s letters, written
at moments when a sudden access of longing compelled him to seek an
outlet for his emotion, were as passionate as at the first day of
their separation. But did they represent his true feelings? Sometimes
she came near to doubting it, and had she possessed other lovers
who gave more tangible proof of their devotion, it would have been easy
for her to assume that Yūgiri’s outpourings were utterly insincere. But
an inexperienced girl cannot afford to doubt—that privilege is reserved
for those with whom love has become a familiar distraction. His letters
were her only interest, and she read them again and again. It soon
reached Tō no Chūjō’s ears that Prince Nakatsukasa had offered his
daughter, and that the suggestion had not been ill-received by Genji.
He drew Kumoi aside and spoke of this, with evident agitation. ‘I am
afraid this means that the young man has given way,’ he said. ‘No doubt
Genji is offended at my not having accepted Yūgiri at the start, and
is anxious to show that it is now too late for me to change my mind.
For your sake I should be willing to humble myself before him to any
extent; but I am afraid we should only be making ourselves ridiculous.’
There were tears in his eyes while he spoke. Embarrassed, for she had
never seen him weep before, Kumoi turned away her head, thus managing
also to conceal her own tears, which by now were beginning gently to
fall. What should he do? It was unendurable to watch her misery. And
determined to make a last desperate appeal to Genji, he fled abruptly
from the room. At the sound of his departure she turned her head, and
coming to the window stood gazing after him. What would her lover
think, what would he do, could he but have seen her father’s strangely
belated tears? It was not thus, she felt sure, that Yūgiri pictured the
tyrant who stood between them. Just at this moment a messenger arrived.
A letter from Yūgiri! Her first thought was that it would announce his
engagement to this daughter of Prince Nakatsukasa, and for a while she
had not the heart to open it. But when at last she did so she found
that it was couched in terms as passionate as ever before. His
poem ran: ‘Now faithlessness, that once was held a crime, rules all
the world, and he a half-wit is accounted whose heart is steadfast for
an hour.’ There was not in the letter a hint of any intention such as
her father had referred to, but the more she thought about it the more
convinced she became that the rumour could not be without foundation.
‘It seems that you, who preach so much of steadfast faith, yourself
will soon be following the world’s new treacherous way.’ He had no
notion what this could mean, and puzzled over it fruitlessly for many
an hour.
[48] At the time of Genji’s birth. See vol. i, p. 38.
[49] Instead of using them for the ceremony.
[50] The ingredients of the perfumes were pounded in metal mortars.
[51] 9th century.
[52] Grandson of the Emperor Uda. A famous poet and æsthete.
[53] A.D. 889–897.
[54] So called because it could be smelt a hundred feet away.
[55] Japanese zithern.
[56] 7 p.m.
[57] 11 p.m.
CHAPTER V
FUJI NO URABA
Despite his friendship for the little Princess, Yūgiri had shown no
interest in the recent proceedings at the New Palace. He had indeed
lately heard that the ‘watchman of the gate,’[58] worn out by a vigil
so unexpectedly prolonged, already showed signs of collapse. The boy,
extremely sensitive to rebuffs, would far rather that the first step
should be taken by the other side, and though constantly planning to
approach his uncle, he felt when it came to the point unable to do
so unless Chūjō’s manner towards him in some way indicated that the
rumoured change of attitude had really taken place.
Meanwhile Kumoi, convinced that Yūgiri’s engagement to the Nakatsukasa
girl would soon be announced, was doing her best to wipe out from her
thoughts all memory of the lover who had betrayed her. Thus, though in
effect the way was now clear, a tangle of misunderstandings made it
impossible for either side to advance. Her father, whose ill-judged
obstinacy was responsible for the whole situation, was by now willing
to make any compromise. Above all it was essential, at the cost of
whatever humiliation, to forestall Prince Nakatsukasa’s definite and
final offer, which did not seem yet to have been made. For after all
that had happened it might be exceedingly difficult to procure the girl
an even tolerable alliance. Despite all the precautions of her family
Kumoi’s early friendship with Yūgiri had become known, and innocent
though it had been, she would inevitably share in the discredit
which attaches to the jilted. He foresaw indeed that belated efforts
to find her a husband would involve both him and the girl herself in
even greater humiliations than would ensue from an immediate surrender.
This time he determined to approach the boy himself; but though they
occasionally met and were to outward appearances on perfectly good
terms, he found it very difficult to embark suddenly upon such a
subject as this. To send for Yūgiri on purpose to discuss the matter
seemed to be making altogether too much fuss about it, and would indeed
mark a point of surrender beyond what, even in his present mood, he was
prepared to bring himself to. At last, however, circumstances afforded
just such an occasion as he sought. On the 20th day of the third month,
the anniversary of his mother’s[59] death, a memorial service was held
at the Gyokurakuji.[60] There was a great gathering of princes and
noblemen, among whom Yūgiri, now grown to his full stature and to-day
magnificently accoutred, cut no discreditable figure. The presence of
Tō no Chūjō, who was of course in charge of the proceedings, always had
the effect of damping Yūgiri’s spirits, and his particularly subdued
cautious manner did not to-day escape his uncle’s notice. A special
recitation of the scriptures was also held at Genji’s expense, and
Yūgiri himself, as grandson of the deceased, was naturally responsible
for many of the arrangements. They were all going home late in the
afternoon amid a shower of falling blossoms, when Tō no Chūjō, overcome
by the memories which had crowded to his mind during this melancholy
celebration, paused for a moment to gaze upon the scene about him.
Yūgiri too was deeply moved by the beauty of the evening and had also
halted. There was a rainy feeling in the air, and some of their
companions shouted to them to come on quickly if they did not want to
catch a wetting. Turning round Tō no Chūjō saw that, like himself,
Yūgiri was spellbound by the sadness of the closing day, and pulling
him gently by the sleeve he said: ‘What does this mean? All day you
have been doing your best to avoid me. I should have thought that on
such an occasion you would have been willing to call a truce. I feel
that to-day I have reached a turning-point in my life. I am beginning
to be an old man, and I cannot afford to lose the affection of those
who are growing up around me....’ ‘I remember,’ Yūgiri answered, ‘that
before she died my grandmother begged me if I were ever in trouble to
come first to you for advice. And I would gladly have done so, had you
not made it clear that you had no wish at all to see me....’ But there
the conversation ended; for the wind had suddenly risen, bringing with
it a violent storm of rain, and the whole party were obliged to make
for home as fast as they could.
Never before had Tō no Chūjō addressed such words to him; and though
there was no direct allusion to the trouble over Kumoi, he could not
help feeling that they were meant as a definite hint of encouragement.
For Yūgiri’s thoughts were continually occupied by this subject, and he
was apt to see a reference to it in the most ordinary remarks. Of this
he was conscious, and all night long he turned over in his mind what
Chūjō had said to him.
But in point of fact Yūgiri’s years-long patience had at last triumphed
completely. If there was a slight further delay it was only because Tō
no Chūjō was waiting for a not too inappropriate occasion upon which to
make his full and unqualified surrender.
Early in the fourth month, one evening when the unusual magnificence
of the wistaria in his courtyard (it had never been so profuse in
blossom or so splendid in colour as this year) induced him to invite
a few friends with whom to feast and make music, when the dusk was
already gathering and the beauty of the flowers, as they gleamed in the
half-night, was even more dazzling than before, Tō no Chūjō plucked a
spray of the blossom and asked his son Kasiwagi to deliver it to Yūgiri
with the message: ‘I should very much like to continue our conversation
of a few days ago, and if you have nothing better to do, please come
round and see me....’ Attached to the wistaria spray was the poem: ‘The
wistaria in my garden is at its deepest hue, and now not many nights
are left in which to see it shining through the dusk.’ Yūgiri could
not for a moment doubt that this was the signal he had waited for. He
thanked Kashiwagi for bringing the message and handed to him the poem:
‘Alas, I fear lest groping through the dusk I now may miss the hour
when these deep-coloured blossoms shed their splendour on the night.’
‘I am ashamed of this poem,’ he said to Kashiwagi, ‘and beg you to
amend it in any way you can.’ ‘Are you not coming straight back with
me?’ said the other. ‘No,’ answered Yūgiri decisively. ‘My retainers
would be a trouble to you,’ and he sent Kashiwagi away. This took place
in Genji’s presence, and looking at the poem, he said: ‘This of course
is all you could desire. Well, I am glad it has happened at last. No
doubt the other day’s proceedings awakened in him the feeling that he
had often treated his mother very badly, and his present surrender
is a sort of propitiation....’ This confident, off-hand tone jarred
on Yūgiri. ‘I don’t think this invitation means anything out of the
ordinary,’ he replied, blushing. ‘The wistaria is in bloom and they are
having some music in the courtyard. It is quite natural that he should
send for me....’ ‘Well, in any case,’ replied Genji, ‘he is evidently
anxious to have you there, or he would not have sent Kashiwagi
on purpose. You had better go at once.’ To a casual observer Yūgiri
would have appeared at this moment apathetic—impassively obedient. But
his heart within staggered with excitement, and in sheer intensity
of expectation he almost fainted away. ‘Wait a minute!’ his father
called after him. ‘That dark cloak will not do at all! It was well
enough while you were a young nobody and did not attend the Council.
But now you have every right to make a better show.... Let me lend
you something,’ and sending a servant to his wardrobe, he presently
displayed a whole pile of the most magnificent Court cloaks, one of
which Yūgiri carried off to his own room. By the time his toilet was
complete twilight had turned to darkness. He hurried to his uncle’s
house, arriving just when Tō no Chūjō, to his chagrin, had decided that
it was useless to expect him. He was led into the house by a band of
some seven or eight young men, headed by Kashiwagi. A seat of honour
had been set apart for him by Tō no Chūjō, who for the moment was
absent, having gone to change his Court hat for a more comfortable form
of head-dress. His wife and some young ladies-in-waiting helped him
to change. ‘You must take a peep at our new guest,’ he said to them.
‘I saw him arriving a moment ago. He has really grown up into a most
distinguished-looking young man; and he dresses admirably. He looks
to me as though he would turn out to have more strength and decision
of character than his father. Genji of course was always very good
company; when one is with him, one is indeed so completely carried
away by his high spirits and charm that the worries and difficulties
of everyday life seem suddenly to lose all reality. But in public
affairs he seems to me to suffer from a certain lack of earnestness, of
gravity.... However, that may be a fault on the right side. Certainly
this son of his has not inherited any such defect; I hear that he
is a better scholar than his father, and is indeed a most serious and
persevering character....’ Tō no Chūjō now rejoined his guests, and
after the usual compliments had been exchanged he said to Yūgiri: ‘You
should have come when the spring flowers were at their best. It was an
astonishing sight this year. Every imaginable colour. But the spring
treated us badly; never has its stay been so short. And now all that
is left us to console ourselves with is these wonderful blossoms here,
which are already almost in summer bloom. For my part I take an immense
delight in them, and I hope that to you as well their colour has
to-night a special significance ...’[61] and he smiled reassuringly.
The moon had now risen, and having admired by its light what little
was to be seen of the wistaria blossom, they settled down again to
music and drink. Seeing that Yūgiri’s shyness required overcoming by
some more drastic procedure than mere friendly encouragement, Tō no
Chūjō affected to be more drunk than he actually was, and under cover
of this pretence pressed the drink upon Yūgiri with a boisterous
insistence. But the boy was determined to keep all his wits about
him, and over and over again refused. ‘I hear,’ said Tō no Chūjō,
‘that you are becoming such a scholar as in these latter days we never
hoped to see again. Perhaps that is why you are so cold towards your
old acquaintances who can boast no such world-wide reputation. But
even in your learned books I fancy there is a good deal about “family
visits,” and there is a certain person,[62] very dear to those of your
persuasion, who made such small formalities the groundwork of his
teaching. You must know far more about all this than I do, and it can
only be for some very particular reason that you so determinedly avoid
your uncle’s house....’ Such a complaint came quite naturally
amid the general sentimentality induced by wine and music. ‘Come,’
answered Yūgiri, ‘did nothing else attach me to you, the memory of my
mother and grandmother would alone make me ready to serve you with my
last breath, and I cannot conceive what I have done to merit such a
reproach. It was you who in the first place gave me to understand that
I was not welcome....’ Tō no Chūjō held his peace; but when a suitable
opportunity occurred he rose to his feet and sang the old song: ‘If
like the leaf ...’[63] while Kashiwagi, evidently at his father’s
bidding, plucked a spray of wistaria blossom, the deepest-coloured and
longest he could find, and twined it round the guest’s wine-cup. Yūgiri
modestly protested; whereupon Tō no Chūjō recited the verse: ‘That as
token of kinship this flower you should invoke I waited[64] till the
blossom hung lower than the pine-boughs; then at last I humbled my
pride.’
Yūgiri, holding the cup, made a slight obeisance, and answered:
‘Strange that through so many dewy springtimes I was doomed to pass
before I met the season when this flower for me its blossom should
unfold.’ So saying he handed the cup to Kashiwagi, and as it went
the round every one in turn produced the best he could in the way of
a poem. But amid the confused revel it was not likely that anything
very good should come to light, and the verses that followed were even
more ragged than those I have already quoted. The moon was only seven
days old, and across the mirror of the silent lake hung a thin veil
of mist. The trees still lacked their full profusion of summer green,
and it was over bare and lonely-looking boughs that the wistaria, not
merged as at a later season in the general mass of leafage, hung
its heavy loads of blossom. Kōbal, whose voice was always in request
upon such occasions, sang ‘The Hedge of Reeds’[65] very charmingly.
‘Come,’ broke in Tō no Chūjō, ‘no one has broken down any hedges here!’
and next time the refrain came he drowned it with the words: ‘Welcome
to this ancient house!’[66] Soon all trace of embarrassment on either
side had completely disappeared, and the party was kept up with a great
deal of noisy singing and other merriment till a very late hour in the
night. At last Yūgiri thought the time had come for a hint on his side,
and pretending to be much more drunk than he really was, he said to
Tō no Chūjō: ‘I am afraid I am not good for much more of this. Could
you possibly allow me to sleep here to-night? My head goes round, and
I doubt whether, even if I managed to set out for home, I should ever
get there safely.’ ‘Kashiwagi!’ cried Tō no Chūjō, ‘a bed for Yūgiri!
I would see to it myself, but I am already far more drunk than an old
person of my age has any right to be, and I must ask you to continue
the concert without me.’ So saying, he went straight to his room. ‘I
know what it is,’ said Kashiwagi, turning to Yūgiri. ‘“You came to
see the flowers, and with the flowers you would stay.” I’ll do what
I can for you. But it may not be so easy as you suppose.’ ‘This is
no wild fancy of the moment,’ answered Yūgiri. ‘Is not the pine-tree
called “the lover of these flowers,” and does he not all the year “wait
changeless till at their own time the blossoms come”? Bring me to
her....’
Kashiwagi was not sure that this was what his father had intended, and
was somewhat loath to take so great a responsibility; but he greatly
admired Yūgiri and had always hoped that matters would end in this
way. It was therefore without any great misgiving that he now led the
way to his sister’s room....
* * * * *
Next day was the Festival of Buddha’s Baptism.[67] The priests carrying
the sacred image arrived somewhat late, and it was evening when the
little girls sent from the various quarters of Genji’s household
arrived with their thank-offerings and alms. This part of the ceremony
was carried out in Genji’s palace exactly as at Court, while Genji’s
levée on the evening of the festival was even better attended than
that held by the Emperor; so that the priests in charge of the image,
who had got through the ordeal of appearing before the Emperor pretty
comfortably, felt much less sure of themselves at this second and, as
it seemed to them, far more critical gathering. But these proceedings
did not in the least interest Yūgiri, who at an early hour put on his
best clothes and hurried away towards Tō no Chūjō’s house. Several
of the younger ladies-in-waiting at the New Palace, without being
actually in love with him, had always taken a considerable interest
in his doings, and were not best pleased to hear that his prolonged
bachelordom had at last come to a close.
The accumulated longing of years, satisfied at last in a manner beyond
the wildest dreams of either, made the union of these two young people
into a basket[68] that certainly let no water through. Tō no Chūjō,
too, liked Yūgiri more and more as he got to know him better, and
lavished upon him every sort of attention. He could not help still
feeling a little sore at having had to surrender in so abject a
manner. At the same time he had a great respect for the tenacity and
single-heartedness which Yūgiri had displayed in the face of every
discouragement during these last years, and he bore the boy no grudge
at all. There was a certain feeling against him in the household, for
Kumoi had now grown to be indubitably prettier and in every way more
interesting than her sister, Lady Chūjō. This had for some time past
excited the jealousy of Lady Chūjō’s mother and of such gentlewomen as
sided with her; and this faction in the household did its best to keep
Yūgiri in his place. But Kumoi’s mother[69] and many other people were
delighted to hear of the engagement.
[68] There is a proverb ‘It is no use pouring water into a basket.’
_Augo_ means ‘union,’ and also ‘basket,’ ‘wicker panier.’
[69] A princess with whom Tō no Chūjō had had an intrigue in early
days. Subsequently she morganatically married a Provincial Inspector.
The Akashi Princess’s actual move into the Crown Prince’s palace was
fixed for the 20th of the fourth month. Meanwhile Murasaki expressed
a desire to visit the August Birthplace.[70] The other ladies of the
household were eager to accompany her; but she did not like the idea of
a huge miscellaneous excursion, and in the end she confined the party
to her own gentlewomen and servants. Even as it was there were twenty
coaches, but everything was done as unostentatiously as possible, and
the number of outriders was extremely small. The visit to the Shrine
was made very early on the morning of the Festival,[71] and Murasaki
was back in time to view the processions from the usual Stand. There
was a good deal of rough hustling and pushing among the grooms and
outriders of various ladies, each of whom was determined to secure a
prominent place for her equipage; but as soon as Murasaki’s carriage
came in sight the rest fell back respectfully to let her pass. Genji,
who was already waiting in the Stand, could not but recollect how
at that other Kamo Festival years ago there had been an awkward clash
of coaches. ‘I am glad you got through without any trouble,’ he said.
‘There is often a good deal of ill-feeling on these occasions. I am
afraid the favourite of the moment is apt to abuse her power, sweeping
mercilessly aside all who stand in her path. Yūgiri’s mother was by no
means given to self-assertion. Yet her death was due to the resentment
she incurred by allowing her servants to behave with insolence during
one of these holiday encounters. It was the present Empress’s mother
who suffered upon that occasion; and it is strange that whereas her
child has reached the highest position to which any lady can aspire,
poor Aoi’s son has only just begun to get on, even in the most modest
way. We must never forget how uncertain everything in this world is. I
have no reason to suppose that things will not now go smoothly with me
to the end. But should you survive me, you might easily find yourself
in a very precarious position....’
A number of princes and noblemen had now assembled near Murasaki’s
Stand to pay her their respects, and Genji joined them. Kashiwagi was
to-day the representative[72] of the Imperial Bodyguard, and it was at
his father’s house that the gentlemen who now accompanied him had that
morning assembled.
Koremitsu’s daughter, who, as will be remembered, now held a post in
the Bedchamber, was also present as representative of her office. She
was just now having a prodigious success at Court, and to-day her coach
was attracting as great a throng of admirers as that of any lady from
the Palace, the Crown Prince’s apartments or the Sixth Ward.[73] Among
those who paid their respects to her this morning was Yūgiri.
He had courted her in old days, in a somewhat half-hearted way it is
true, but the news of his sudden engagement to the daughter of so
eminent a house piqued her more than she would have expected. ‘If on no
other day, then surely with this wreath[74] about your brow, lady, you
call to mind that once we met!’[75] Such was the poem that he handed
into her coach, and distracted though she was by the importunities
of her admirers, she was touched that he should remember her at such
a moment, and despite the fact that a carriage-seat is no place for
writing verse, she answered him with the poem: ‘That “hollyhock” spells
“meeting” is for scholars to conclude. They know it not who pluck the
flowers, nor they that weave them as a crown about their brow.’ It was
not meant seriously; but Yūgiri felt that it was a snub and retired,
somewhat surprised to find that in his present happiness any other
woman’s reply could make the slightest difference to him.
It was usual, when the Heir Apparent’s consort was of very immature
age, for her to be accompanied at Court by her mother or guardian.
Murasaki had adopted the Akashi Princess in its infancy, and according
to the usual practice it would now be she who followed the girl to
the Eastern Palace. But Genji would not sanction a plan that involved
continual and prolonged absence from home, and the opportunity seemed
an excellent one for restoring the child to the care of her true
mother, the Lady of Akashi. Murasaki had long felt that the separation
of the girl from her mother, though from a worldly point of view
advantageous to her, was an arrangement too inhumane to be otherwise
than temporary. The little Princess herself, now that she was of an
age to understand the situation, was obviously becoming more and more
dissatisfied with it. To stand in the way of a reunion which
promised so much happiness on both sides was out of the question, and
on her own initiative Murasaki said to Genji: ‘Would it not be possible
for the Lady from Akashi to go with the child to the Eastern Palace?
She still needs a lot of looking after, and almost all her ladies are
far too young to be much use in that respect. She has her nurses, of
course, who will do all they can. But there are many points which
people of that kind cannot reasonably be expected to decide. Were I
myself to take charge of her I could not possibly be on the spot all
the time. I would much rather she had some one who could give undivided
attention....’ What a comfort that she took so sensible a view! Genji
hastened to inform the mother of this decision, and her delight was
touching to behold. Indeed, her only anxiety was lest after all these
years of retirement she should herself have become too dowdy to mingle
with the bevy of resplendent young creatures who had been chosen for
her daughter’s service, and she began hastily providing herself with a
new outfit.
Her mother, the old recluse’s wife, heard with profound relief that
the little girl’s prospects were now finally assured, and henceforward
she clung desperately to life, despite many infirmities and troubles,
in the one hope that she might see her grandchild again before she
went down into the grave. But she lived a long way from the Court, and
at last began to wonder disconsolately whether the meeting would ever
really take place.
On the night of the actual Presentation Murasaki accompanied the child
in the hand-litter which was to convey her to the Eastern Palace. It
was open to the Lady of Akashi to follow on foot, and as far as she
herself was concerned she would have been ready enough to do so. But
she feared that her presence would spoil the effect of the Princess’s
entry, and remained for the time being in her own apartments,
feeling, as may well be imagined, very unwanted and forlorn. The
ceremony of introduction was, at Genji’s request, performed with as
little publicity as possible. But it is in any case an elaborate
affair, such as is bound to arouse a good deal of interest. While
dressing the little Princess in all the finery that this trying
occasion demanded, Murasaki could not help passionately wishing that
this lovely child were really hers. And to Genji as well as to Yūgiri
the same thought occurred: if only this one thing were not lacking,
surely Lady Murasaki would be the happiest, the most fortunate woman on
earth!
After three days she left the Palace, and on the way out met the
child’s own mother, who had now come to take charge. They got into
conversation, and Murasaki said: ‘Seeing the little Princess in these
grown-up clothes has reminded me how long it is since you first came
to live with us. I think, having been neighbours all these years, we
ought by now to know one another a little better than we do....’ It
was not an easy conversation to get started, but Murasaki’s manner was
so obviously kindly and sympathetic that a friendship was soon struck
up between them. Murasaki, for her part, was so much attracted by
the other’s manner and way of speaking that she soon well understood
Genji’s admiration for her; while the Lady of Akashi could not fail to
be delighted by Murasaki’s noble bearing and faultless beauty. She felt
it to be perfectly natural that among all the women who had received
Genji’s favours, this lady should always have held the unquestioned
supremacy; she thought indeed at this moment that even to have been
set beside her as the humblest participant in Genji’s affection was an
honour of which she might justly be proud.
Murasaki’s return was attended by great pomp and solemnity. She was
permitted the use of a hand-litter, a privilege usually restricted to
the Emperor’s consorts, and the Lady of Akashi, as she watched her
leave the Palace, once more felt for a moment painfully conscious of
her own utter inferiority.
The sight of her lovely child, waiting for her with a doll-like and
neat composure, was more than she could bear, and so near are the
outward signs of grief and joy that no one seeing her then could have
guessed that the tears which now rushed to her eyes were those of
the purest and tenderest delight. For years it had seemed as though
fate were utterly against her, and she were destined to drift on only
into greater depression and obscurity. But now a brighter prospect
had opened, and remembering her pious father’s constant prayers and
oblations she could not but think that it was the God of Sumiyoshi who
had at last set her fortunes on a fairer course.
The little Princess had been so carefully brought up by Murasaki that
she needed very little guidance. Every one in the Eastern Palace was
at once charmed by her beauty and friendly disposition, not least the
Crown Prince himself. For, mere child though he was, he could not fail
to perceive that she far outshone all other companions whom fate had
put in his way. Those whose designs had been frustrated by the little
Princess’s arrival made a point of speaking disparagingly in his
Highness’s presence of the child’s mother, saying with mock sympathy
that it would be a great handicap to her at Court to have so homely a
creature always at her side. But such remarks had no effect. Not only
was the child unusually quick-witted, but it soon became apparent that
she already possessed considerable will and character of her own. Her
every whim was now gratified, and as many of her ladies had admirers
among the most fashionable young noblemen at Court, her rooms became
the scene of the most dazzling fêtes and receptions. It was indeed
all the Lady of Akashi could do to keep the ladies-in-waiting in
proper trim for all these festivities, after she had attended to
the Princess’s outfit and made the necessary household arrangement.
Murasaki managed occasionally to visit them, and was delighted to find
that there was in the Lady of Akashi’s manner towards her no longer any
of the distrust and coldness which had for so long made it wellnigh
impossible for them to meet.
Genji, who could never think of himself as living to any great age,
was profoundly thankful that he had now provided for his daughter in
a manner which seemed to make her happiness assured. And even Yūgiri,
whose excellent qualities of heart had seemed at one time likely to
condemn him to a state of permanent unsettledness and despondency,
was now happily provided for.... It seemed in fact to Genji at this
time that all the worst dangers and difficulties of his life had
been successfully overmounted, and that he might now even manage to
arrive at the finish without any very serious disaster. Were he to die
now his only anxiety would be on Murasaki’s behalf; but so long as
Akikonomu, who had always regarded her as a second mother, retained
her influence, Murasaki was not likely to come to any great harm.
Moreover, as foster-mother of a future Empress she would be certain of
a considerable position at Court even in the event of Akikonomu’s death
or retirement.
He sometimes had qualms about the Lady from the Village of Falling
Flowers. She, poor thing, certainly did not have a very gay time of
it; but for the moment she had Yūgiri to keep an eye on her. Generally
speaking, he could remember no time at which his affairs had been in
such hopeful trim.
Next year would see his fortieth birthday, and he heard that both at
Court and in the country at large great preparations were afoot for
celebrating this event. Already in the autumn of the present year he
was proclaimed equal in rank to an Imperial Parent, and his fiefs
and patronage were correspondingly increased. His actual power
had for a long time past been absolute and complete, so that these
changes brought him no great advantage. Indeed, in one respect they
were inconvenient; for in defiance of a very well-established precedent
he was burdened with the special retinue of his new rank, which,
magnificent though it made his public appearances, rendered his comings
and goings in the Palace very burdensome, and he was no longer able to
meet the Emperor so often as he desired.
Ryōzen still felt acutely the illegality of his own position and would
at any moment have been prepared to resign the Throne, had not Genji
refused to sanction such a step, pointing out that it would have a
disastrous effect on public opinion if it became known that the true
line of succession had been impaired.
Tō no Chūjō of course succeeded to the position which Genji had
vacated, and Yūgiri at last became a Palace Counsellor. On the day
when the new officers went to Court to receive their Investiture Tō no
Chūjō was greatly struck by the improvement in the boy’s carriage and
appearance. For the first time he felt that Kumoi would after all be
far better off with this young man as her devoted slave and protector
than she would ever have been in the Palace, where she could not at
best hope for more than a perfunctory share of the Emperor’s attention.
Yūgiri’s new estate required more spacious quarters than were available
in his father’s palace, and soon after his promotion he moved into
his grandmother’s old house in the Third Ward. It was somewhat out
of repair, but the damage was soon put to rights, and the Princess’s
former apartments were modified to suit the requirements of the
newly-married pair. For both of them the place was full of old and
tender memories. They could remember as clumps of scraggy, freshly
planted trees, plantations that now yielded an ample shade, and
one bed of miscanthus, planted by the old Princess herself, had by
now grown so thick and tangled that they were obliged to thin it out
and cut it back, lest it should keep the sun off the plants around.
The moat too needed clearing out and, when fresh water-plants had
been set in it, looked very inviting. One lovely autumn evening the
young pair stood by the water, talking of their childhood and of all
the tribulations that were now happily overcome. Kumoi, among much
that it was delightful to recall, could not help remembering several
small incidents that had seemed to her of no significance at the
time, but now made her somewhat uncomfortable in the presence of her
grandmother’s old servants, most of whom had joyfully welcomed the
opportunity of returning to their old positions. Yūgiri, gazing into
the water, recited the poem: ‘Guardian of secrets, thou only could’st
tell whither her soul is fled, but speakest not, O rock-fed wellspring
of our house.’ To this Kumoi answered: ‘Of her that is departed no
shadow haunts thy waters, O springlet, as calm and unrepentant thy
waves flow onward to their goal!’
At this moment Tō no Chūjō, drawn hither by the beauty of the autumn
leaves, came into the garden for a while on his way back from the
Palace. The house, full once more of movement and life, looked
(thought Tō no Chūjō) just as he had known it on many an autumn day in
his parents’ lifetime, and as he wandered from one familiar spot to
another it affected him strangely to find those whom he had recently
thought of as mere children playing the part of dignified masters and
possessors amid the scenes where he himself had once submitted to his
elders’ rule. Yūgiri too seemed slightly embarrassed by the situation;
he blushed noticeably when giving orders, and his manner was oddly
subdued. They were, thought Tō no Chūjō, a singularly handsome and
well-matched pair. Kumoi, indeed, was no very exceptional beauty;
but the boy was certainly as graceful and well-built as any young man
he knew. Glancing among some papers covered with practice-writing,
Chūjō noticed the poems about the wellspring which the young pair had
just composed. Deeply moved, he said: ‘I too have it in my heart to
invoke the spirit of this familiar stream; but for one who stands so
near the margin of the grave....’[76] Nevertheless, he took a brush and
wrote the verse: ‘Long must it be indeed since the old tree withered;
for already its seedlings spread their green roots across the shaded
earth.’ Some of the old Princess’s aged servants were sitting in a
group near by, croaking mysterious tales of vanished wonders. Among
them was Yūgiri’s old nurse. She had never forgiven Tō no Chūjō for his
former harshness towards her young master, and overhearing the recital
of his ‘seedling’ poem, she was unable to restrain her indignation and
burst out with the lines: ‘Some of us have tended these two seedlings
since first they put forth leaf, and have not only at this last hour
discovered that they cast upon the earth a pleasant shade.’ This
encouraged several of the other aged dames to vent their views, and
Yūgiri for his part was much amused by their quaint impromptus. But
Kumoi found their fulsome compliments somewhat embarrassing, and was
glad when their inspiration ran out.
Late in the tenth month the Emperor declared his intention of visiting
Genji in the New Palace. Knowing that the maple leaves would be
particularly lovely at this season, he invited the ex-Emperor Suzaku to
accompany him. The visit of a reigning sovereign and his predecessor
to the house of a subject had seldom if ever occurred before, and the
event aroused great interest throughout the country. The simultaneous
reception of two such august visitors was a matter that required much
forethought, and the dazzling preparations which Genji set afoot
cost him hours of deliberation.
The guests arrived at the hour of the Serpent.[77] The first ceremony
was a parade of the Bodyguards of the Right and Left, who lined up
beside their horses exactly as at the Imperial Race-meeting in the
fifth month. Early in the afternoon the Emperor proceeded to the
Main Hall. All the plank bridges and galleries along which he passed
were carpeted with costly brocades, and his progress was screened
from the public gaze by heavy canvas curtains painted with landscape
scenery. At the Eastern Lake the party embarked on boats, and the head
cormorant-fisher from the Palace, combined with Genji’s men, gave a
display with his birds, who brought up a number of small gibel in their
beaks. This fishing display was not part of the original programme, but
was improvised at the last moment, lest the royal personages should be
bored on the way from the parade-ground to the main palace. Every knoll
in the gardens was crowned by the scarlet of maple leaves; but nowhere
were they in better colour than in Akikonomu’s Western Garden, and in
order that his Majesty might in passing have a better view of them,
part of the wall that divided her domain from the Great Gardens had
been hastily removed.
The seats of the two visitors had been placed side by side in the Great
Hall, with Genji’s at a considerable distance; but at the Emperor’s
request Genji’s seat was brought into line with theirs. This treatment,
which to those present appeared in the highest degree flattering, was
indeed far less than the Emperor would have liked to do for Genji,
before whom the laws of filial piety demanded that he should kneel in
humble reverence. The fish caught on the lake were to be submitted to
the Emperor’s approval by the Colonel of the Bodyguard of the
Left. Meanwhile Genji’s falconers returned from the Northern Fields
with a string of birds which were handed over to the Colonel of the
other Guard, who entering the Main Hall by the eastern doors submitted
the game kneeling at one side of the steps,[78] while the fish were
displayed on the other side. Tō no Chūjō, at his Majesty’s command,
directed the cooking of these viands, which were served to the Emperor
himself, while the princes and noblemen in attendance were offered a
repast of the most appetizing kind, in which every dish was served in
a manner to some degree out of the ordinary. When every one had had as
much as he wanted and dusk was setting in, the musicians were sent for.
It was not a formal concert, but there was some very lively dancing
by various young pages from Court. The ex-Emperor Suzaku could not
but remember the dancing at the Festival of Red Leaves years ago, an
occasion which often came back to his mind. When the Ga-ō-on[79] was
played, Tō no Chūjō’s sons, ten in all, danced to it with such success
that the Emperor rewarded them with the gift of his own cloak, which
Tō no Chūjō received on their behalf with an elaborate _budō_.[80]
Genji was meanwhile recalling the day when he had been Tō no Chūjō’s
partner in the Dance of the Blue Waves, and plucking a chrysanthemum he
addressed to him the poem: ‘Though like this flower you have as time
goes by put on a deeper hue, do you recall a day when in the autumn
wind your sleeve flapped close to mine?’ Yes, then indeed (thought Tō
no Chūjō) they were partners, and there was little to choose between
them in rank and prospects. But now, despite the very important
position he held, he knew well enough that, compared with Genji, he was
in popular estimation a very insignificant person indeed. ‘Not
to a flower shall I compare thee, who hidest amid the pomp of regal
clouds, but to a star that shines out of an air stiller and clearer
than our own.’ Such was Tō no Chūjō’s answer. By now the evening wind
was stirring among the red leaves that lay heaped upon the courtyard
floor, weaving them into patterns of brown and red. Here some pretty
little boys, children of various noble houses, were imitating in play
the dances of their elders. They wore blue and crimson tunics, and
shirts of yellow with dark-red facings. Apart from their little Court
hats they had no formal insignia, and it was a pretty sight to see them
capering about amid the maple leaves, through which the setting sun now
slanted its last rays. The professional musicians were not called upon
to give any very exacting performance, and at an early hour the private
playing began, led by the Emperor, who sent to the Palace Library for a
selection of zitherns. Prompted by the beauty of the season and hour,
one after another of the great personages there present called for his
instrument and gave vent upon it to the feelings of the moment. Suzaku
was deeply moved at hearing the familiar tones of Uda no Hōshi.[81]
Turning to the Emperor he recited the verse: ‘Though, watcher of the
woods, through many rainy autumns I have passed, such tints as these
it never was my lot in any devious valley to behold.’ He said this in
his usual tone of gentle complaint. The Emperor answered: ‘You speak
as though mere leaves were on the ground; here rather has autumn woven
a brocade that, could it be an heirloom, after-ages would covet to
possess.’
Now that he was grown to full manhood the Emperor’s likeness to Genji
was astonishingly complete. Equally striking was his resemblance to
Yūgiri. The latter of course had not that complete self-possession
and authority of manner which His Majesty had naturally acquired
during his years of rule; but Yūgiri had distinctly the better
complexion. He was now called upon to play the flute; among the
courtiers who, drawn up along the steps, were singing the words of the
tune was Tō no Chūjō’s son Kōbai, long famous for the beauty of his
voice. It was indeed a memorable occasion, and one which it seemed that
some special Providence must have contrived.
[58] Tō no Chūjō. Reference to a passage in the _Ise Monogatari_.
[59] Princess Omiya.
[60] The mausoleum of the Fujiwara family.
[61] Purple, a presage of high rank.
[62] Confucius.
[63] ‘If like the leaf of the wistaria through which the sun darts his
rays transparently you give your heart to me, I will no more mistrust
you.’
[64] The usual pun: _matsu_ = ‘pine-tree,’ and ‘wait.’
[65] ‘About that broken place in the reed-hedge, in the front hedge,
some one has told my mother. I think it was that chatterbox my younger
brother’s wife. For she saw you climbing over, and she it must have
been who told.’
[66] From another old song.
[67] 8th day of the fourth month. Images of the Infant Buddha (four
inches high, with right hand raised towards the sky) are carried in
procession and sprinkled with water. The festival commemorates the
occasion when the Rain Dragons sprinkled the head of the Infant Buddha.
[70] The place at the Kamo Shrine where the Goddess Tamayorihime gave
birth to Wake-ikazuchi, the Thunder God. It is this event which the
Kamo Festival commemorates.
[71] Fourth month.
[72] Each of the Palace departments was officially represented at the
Kamo Festival.
[73] Genji’s palace.
[74] Wreath of hollyhock, _ao-hi_; also means ‘Day of meeting.’
[75] _Katsu_, once; _katsura_, ‘laurel’, also used for festival wreaths.
[76] He speaks of himself as though he were an old man.
[77] 9 a.m.
[78] Of the Imperial Dais.
[79] ‘Thanking for the Prince’s Favour,’ a Chinese dance.
[80] A form of obeisance so elaborate as to be almost a dance.
[81] Name of a famous Japanese zithern.
CHAPTER VI
WAKANA
(‘Young Shoots’)
PART I
For years past the ex-Emperor Suzaku had been ailing, though it was
hard to say exactly what was wrong with him. Soon after his visit to
Genji’s palace he became much worse, and began preparing himself for
admission to the priesthood. He would indeed long ago have entered a
monastery, had not his mother Lady Kōkiden, masterful as ever in her
extreme old age, obstinately opposed such a step. But now she was dead,
and the only remaining difficulty was the question of his family.
Oborozuki remained childless; but Lady Jōkyōden had borne him four
children: one boy (the present Heir Apparent) and three girls. But
he had another daughter, born to him by a certain Princess Wistaria,
a younger sister of Lady Fujitsubo. Suzaku was extremely fond of
this princess, and their daughter, Princess Nyosan, was undoubtedly
his favourite child. But under the influence of Kōkiden, who had
subsequently thrust Oborozuki upon him, he kept Nyosan’s mother very
much in the background. After his abdication her life became more than
ever dull and purposeless. In a short while she pined away and died.
Nyosan was, at the point we have reached in our story, about thirteen
years old. Already the retreat that Suzaku had built for himself on
the Western Hills was nearing completion; soon he would be immured for
ever, and his one anxiety was to get this child started in life before
he disappeared. The first consideration was her Initiation, which
could not any longer be delayed. When Suzaku gave his children toys, it
was always Nyosan who had the first choice, the others never getting
the smallest trinket unless she had first refused it. You may imagine
then with what care he now ransacked his treasury for rare and costly
objects that might add splendour to the coming celebration.
Hearing that Suzaku was on the point of departure from the City,
his son the Heir Apparent, accompanied by Lady Jōkyōden, came to
pay him a farewell visit. Suzaku had never cared much for this Lady
Jōkyōden, who had indeed been imposed upon him solely out of political
considerations; but as mother of the future sovereign she was a person
of great consequence at Court, and there were now many matters that
he was glad to talk over with her. Having discussed his son’s future,
about which he felt no forebodings, he said to his visitors: ‘It is
the girls that I am worried about. I cannot imagine what will become
of them. I have so often seen this sort of thing happen before. It is
torture to foresee in every detail how they will be taken advantage of
and insulted. When I say “they,” of course all this does not really
apply to your children, you will no doubt see to it that they get
properly settled. It is about Nyosan that I am chiefly troubled. I wish
you would undertake to look after her....’ But this was asking a good
deal. Nyosan’s mother, for whom the Emperor cared far more than for
Jōkyōden, had behaved very disagreeably to her when their rivalry was
at its height, and though Jōkyōden had no intention of avenging herself
upon a defenceless orphan, she saw no reason why she of all people
should be expected to assume responsibility in the matter.
Day and night Suzaku brooded over the future of this favourite child.
Meanwhile his weakness steadily increased and by the end of
the year he was no longer able to leave his bed. To visitor after
visitor he poured out the same tale of perplexity, and received much
sympathy, though nothing in the way of practical suggestions. Genji
sent frequently to enquire and even promised to come in person, but
ultimately sent his son Yūgiri instead. ‘I am afraid your father has
a grudge against me,’ said Suzaku. ‘I have myself always regarded him
with the utmost affection; but at one time the powers arrayed against
him were very strong, and I allowed certain measures to be taken....
People are always coming here and warning me to be on my guard....
“Some day he will find a way of getting even with you,” they say. “Many
a man has waited far longer than this to settle an old score,” and
so on. But I am bound to say nothing comes of it. I cannot remember
a single occasion on which Genji has shown me the slightest trace of
ill-will. It is of course to him that I should most naturally turn for
help in my present difficulties. But I know how trying people are when
they talk about their own children; and so I have ended by discussing
the matter with all and sundry, rather than with Genji, whose sympathy
I was particularly anxious not to lose. But my visit to his palace this
autumn made me feel how unfortunate it is that I see him so seldom. I
wish you could persuade him to come here one day....’ ‘I am sure he
would be delighted to come,’ answered Yūgiri. ‘Of course I know nothing
of what happened between you in the past. But lately he has frequently
discussed political affairs with me, and I have never heard him mention
you in a way to suggest that he bears you ill-will for what happened in
the past....’ While Yūgiri spoke, a new idea entered the ex-Emperor’s
head. How would it be to confide to this competent and agreeable young
man the care of the daughter whose future was causing him so much
anxiety? ‘I hear you have now got a house of your own,’ he said to
Yūgiri. ‘I have known for a long time past of your difficulties over
this matter and was extremely sorry for you. However, now your troubles
have all ended in a manner completely satisfactory to you, I suppose.
But what I feel about it is that really, after all that happened, Tō no
Chūjō hardly deserves you as his son-in-law. Indeed, I must confess, in
that respect I feel somewhat jealous of him....’ For a moment Yūgiri
was mystified; but then he remembered having heard that Suzaku was in
a great state about one of his daughters.... However, he was shy of
letting it be seen that he understood this hint, and only answered: ‘I
am sure you need not be jealous of anything that concerns me. As you
know well enough, I am a very insignificant person....’
That was the end of the conversation. Some of the gentlewomen who had
caught a glimpse of Yūgiri as he passed were loud in their admiration
of his costume and person. But an older lady-in-waiting croaked out
indignantly: ‘Nothing to what his father was at that age! You don’t
see such men nowadays. He really _was_ a handsome young gentleman.’
‘She is quite right,’ said Suzaku, overhearing this outburst. ‘There
will never be any one like Genji. He has aged, of course; but I think
that the extraordinary vividness and radiance of his expression—the
quality which in his infancy won for him the name of Hikaru[82]—has if
anything increased as time goes by. His face when in repose has now a
nobility and dignity that in his younger and more irresponsible days
were lacking; but I still think that he is never so attractive as when
laughing and talking sheer nonsense. Then he is the real Genji whose
like has never been seen in the world before.’
One day when the little princess had been brought to his bedside,
seeing her so childlike and helpless, the ex-Emperor exclaimed:
‘What I should really like would be for some one to take a fancy to
her and bring her up privately, with a view to making her his wife
later on. Then I should feel that both her education and her subsequent
career were safely provided for....’ He called the head nurse to
him, and having discussed one or two matters connected with Nyosan’s
Initiation, he said to her presently: ‘You have probably heard the
story of Lady Murasaki’s upbringing. I wish I could find some one
who would adopt my little girl in that fashion. Outside the Imperial
Family it is difficult to think of any one suitable; and in the Palace,
Akikonomu has everything so much her own way that the other ladies
of the Household come off very badly. If Nyosan had strong backing
at Court, I might risk it; but as things are ... I wish, by the way,
I had thought of approaching this young Yūgiri while he was still
available. I feel certain that he has a great future before him.’ ‘You
would have had to think of this a very long time ago if you wished
to secure Prince Yūgiri,’ the nurse assured him. ‘For years past he
has been waiting for this daughter of Tō no Chūjō, and I do not think
you would have found it an easy matter to interest him in any other
proposal. Genji himself is far more promising. Of one thing you may be
quite certain: if he once took a fancy to our young lady he would never
abandon her. Why, I hear that despite all his other preoccupations he
still goes on visiting Princess Asagao and all those other ladies about
whom we used to hear so much in early days.’ ‘Come,’ said Suzaku, ‘the
fact that so many youthful affairs are still in his hands does not
particularly recommend him for our present purpose....’ But the idea
stuck in his head. Although Nyosan would in Genji’s household grow up
as one among many, she would at least enjoy the advantage of having
come there as a child, an orphan whose interests Genji was pledged to
defend. ‘If any one were looking for a place where a young girl
could be sent to pick up a little knowledge of the world, I cannot
imagine anywhere better than Genji’s palace. I only wish that I could
spend the little that remains to me of life in surroundings half so
pleasant and entertaining! Were I a girl I should certainly have fallen
in love with Genji. Indeed, when I was young I did feel something
of the kind; and I entirely understand how it is that he carries
everything before him....’ Suzaku paused. Perhaps he was thinking of
his own failure with Oborozuki.[83]
The longer Suzaku reflected, the more difficult did it appear to
find any one more promising than Genji. There was certainly no one
else who could do more for her if he chose. And as for the other
ladies in Genji’s household—their presence would not necessarily be
a disadvantage; Genji could easily prevent that, if he was by way of
taking any trouble about her at all. A man living in retirement with
plenty of time on his hands, of rare charm, settled habits—what more
could be asked? One or two other names did, however, cross his mind.
There was Prince Sochi. No one could say she was marrying beneath her,
for he too was the child of an Emperor, and there was indeed in that
way nothing to choose between them. But Suzaku regarded him as weak,
frivolous, irresponsible; and there were stories.... No; certainly he
would not do.
His mind roamed from possibility to possibility. For a moment he even
considered Tō Dainagon, the Superintendent of his household, who would
himself never have dreamed of applying for the Princess’s hand, but
had offered ‘to look after her affairs,’ in the event of her being
left an orphan. And admirably he would do it; Suzaku felt sure, for
this gentleman was a model of painstaking devotion. But he was, after
all, a mere junior official, without influence or distinction of
any kind. Things had indeed come to a pretty pass if for an Emperor’s
daughter no better match than this could be found! His thoughts again
took a more ambitious turn. Oborozuki told him that her sister’s son
Kashiwagi was secretly anxious to form a connection with the Imperial
House. Perhaps it was this ambition that kept him still unmarried, and
though many people would have laughed at such aspirations, Suzaku was
by no means ready to condemn them. They showed at least that Kashiwagi
had definite aims in life, and this fact alone sufficed to mark him out
from among the ordinary run of easy-going young courtiers who lived
solely for the pleasures of the moment.
As a scholar his talents were respectable, and in the natural course
of things he would one day be at the head of the Government.... A
brilliant match for any other woman; but when it came to imagining him
as Nyosan’s husband, Kashiwagi (as indeed every one else of whom Suzaku
thought) seemed somehow hopelessly inadequate. Indeed, he worried a
thousand times more over Nyosan, who had already received numerous
flattering offers, than over the other sisters who could scarcely
muster one wretched suitor apiece.
The ex-Emperor might never have reached a decision at all, had not the
Crown Prince taken a very firm line on the subject. The young man did
not of course openly venture to advise his father on such a point; but
it came round to Suzaku that his son was in the strongest possible way
opposed to Nyosan’s marrying a commoner.[84] The matter was one that
did not merely concern her happiness, but would create a precedent and
thus affect the stability of the Imperial Family.
The only course the Crown Prince favoured was one that had already
occurred to Suzaku: Genji must be persuaded to take charge of the girl.
At last Suzaku allowed his mind to be made up for him, and employed
Sachūben,[85] the brother of Nyosan’s head nurse, to obtain Genji’s
views on the matter. Genji had of course for some while past known that
the question of Nyosan’s future was tormenting the ex-Emperor, and was
anxious to assist him. ‘But there can be no suggestion of my adopting
the child,’ he said. ‘The ex-Emperor is, I fear, failing rapidly, and
no doubt in the ordinary course of things I shall survive him by a
certain number of years. In that case I shall be glad to do what I
can in a general way to help all his children. But I cannot accept
a special responsibility for any particular child.... As for taking
her as a concubine, considering the difference of age between us, the
question is too absurd to discuss. However, there is no necessity for
so strange a choice. Yūgiri, for example, has not got far at present;
but he has a brilliant future before him.... However, I quite see the
difficulty there. Yūgiri is a faithful fellow, and perhaps at present
he would be unwilling. No doubt Suzaku is right not to suggest it.’
Not to be put off by this first refusal, Sachūben now gave so harrowing
a picture of the effect such a reply would have upon the ex-Emperor’s
already precarious condition that Genji could not help smiling: ‘I know
that he is ill and she is his favourite child,’ he said. ‘But that
surely does not give him the right to impose her willy-nilly on any one
he pleases. Am I to have no say in the matter at all? But for my part
I do not see wherein lies his difficulty. Why not simply send her to
the Palace? She would have competitors, of course; but the last arrival
does not always do worst. His own mother’s[86] career was a case in
point. While my father was Crown Prince, and during the early part
of his reign, Kōkiden carried all before her; but later on she was
completely superseded by Lady Fujitsubo. Lady Wistaria, Nyosan’s
mother, was a sister of Fujitsubo. I hear the child is exceedingly
good-looking, rather in Fujitsubo’s style, they say; though of course
to a far less remarkable degree.... Why should not the same thing
happen again? With birth and good looks both on her side it would be
strange indeed if she did not make her way....’
But even while giving this advice he felt a certain curiosity to see
the child for himself.
Three days after Nyosan’s Initiation the ex-Emperor received the
tonsure. However commonplace, however uneventful a man’s life has
been, this final ceremony is always painful to witness. But here was
one, who had formerly stood upon the highest pinnacle of glory, ready
now to obliterate at a stroke all that remained to him of comeliness
and youth. A murmur of horror ran through the ranks of his gentlemen
and attendants as the priests began to set about their fatal work.
Oborozuki was at his side, and unable to bear the sight of her woe,
Suzaku said: ‘I always thought the hardest thing would be parting with
my children; but they, fortunately, seem cheerful enough on their
side—which is a great help to me. Whereas you, with your tearful
faces....’
Though he was not fit to be out of bed, they had carried him to a
chair, where despite great weakness and discomfort he remained till the
Abbot of Hiyeizan, attended by three senior priests, had administered
to him the rules of the Tendai Sect, arrayed him in the habit of their
order and performed such other rites as mark a final severance from the
world. During these proceedings even the officiating priests could not
restrain their tears, and such a storm of sobbing broke out among the
princesses, consorts and miscellaneous gentlewomen who thronged
the room, that Suzaku devoutly wished he were already safely installed
in his mountain retreat. It now seemed unlikely, however, that he would
ever be able to perform the journey. And if he had thus irrevocably
deprived himself of the quiet monastic days with which he had always
hoped to close his life, it was (as he now confessed to himself) solely
his perpetual worrying about Nyosan’s future that had kept him in the
Capital till too late.
After the ceremony he received numerous visitors, including the
reigning Emperor. As the result of all this excitement Suzaku rallied
slightly, and hearing of this Genji went to pay his long promised
visit. He was received quite informally and accommodated in the seat
commonly used by Suzaku when in health, a few extra hangings and
ornaments having been added to smarten it. For a moment it was a great
shock to Genji to see the companion of his youth arrayed in this solemn
and penitential garb. Controlling himself by an effort, he said at
last: ‘Ever since my father’s death, which for the first time impressed
me strongly with the shortness and futility of human existence, I have
been making plans to compass what you have now successfully achieved. I
wish I had your strength of mind. The sight of you in those robes makes
me feel thoroughly disgusted with my own continual procrastination. If
you, who have known what it is to be lord of all the land, can bring
yourself to take this step, there is certainly no reason why a humble
person like myself should shrink from it. But every time I think that
the last obstacle has been removed, some fresh difficulty crops up....’
They talked much of old times, and finally Suzaku said: ‘You have no
need to apologize in my presence for your slowness in breaking with
the world. I myself have delayed from day till day, until it looks
as though the better part of my plan will never be fulfilled.
But though I doubt whether I shall ever reach my retreat among the
Western Hills, I hope I may live long enough to get through a few quiet
prayers here in my own house. What now bothers me is that I have not
been nearly so strict in my observances as I might have been, though
all the while my thoughts were certainly turned to holy things, for it
was only in the hope of spending a few last years in a sacred place
that I struggled on against all this illness and pain....’ Having
mentioned several small matters concerning which Genji could be useful
to him, Suzaku continued: ‘You have heard no doubt that I am very much
exercised in mind over the future of my daughters. There is one in
particular I should feel profoundly thankful to leave in the charge
of some responsible person who would really give proper attention to
her....’
‘Surely he is not going to start that business all over again?’ thought
Genji in alarm. Yet in a way he was not sorry to return to the subject,
for he had a certain secret curiosity concerning this little princess.
‘I quite understand,’ he said, ‘that a girl of Nyosan’s rank needs, far
more than any one of ordinary birth, to be provided from the outset
with a settled home. But failing this, she will surely come to very
little harm with her brother the Crown Prince to keep an eye upon her.
He is a young man of remarkable abilities, and the whole country looks
up to him with confidence and respect. He would in any case consider it
his duty to take so near a relative under his especial protection; and
if you mention the matter to him in advance, still less will you have
any need to worry about her future. Later on your son will of course
succeed to the Throne, and if to provide for a woman’s happiness were
as easy as to make new laws, Nyosan would indeed be assured of perfect
felicity. But I admit that in the last resort there is very little
that even an Emperor can do for women, save to admit them to his
household, which in this case does not come into question. So if you
want here and now to make a permanent provision for her whole future,
you must arrange with some one to adopt her after your death, and
either marry her himself or promise to effect her marriage with some
one previously selected by you. Then you surely need not fear that any
misgivings will disturb you in the life beyond the grave....’ ‘What is
the use of telling me this?’ Suzaku asked. ‘Naturally I have thought
of it all long ago. But it is not so easy as you make out. It is a
difficult matter even for a reigning Emperor to find suitable alliances
for several daughters. And for me, who have not only long ago resigned
the Throne, but am on the verge of retiring to a monastery (if indeed
I do not die before I succeed in getting there), the whole business is
so perplexing that I verily believe half my illness is due to worrying
about it.... I cannot afford to let another day go by without getting
this thing settled.... I know it is asking a great deal of you, but do,
I beseech you, consent to taking this one daughter of mine under your
protection. As to finding her a husband, I will leave that to you. I am
sure your choice would be all that I could desire. Were Yūgiri still
available, his is the name I should suggest. But unfortunately Tō no
Chūjō has anticipated me....’
‘Yūgiri,’ replied Genji, ‘has a great deal of steady-going good sense,
and I think he would have made her an excellent husband. But he has
had very little experience, and I doubt whether in any case I could
recommend him as sole protector to a girl in Nyosan’s position. As
regards myself, I think it is quite true that if she is left an orphan
she would under my care suffer the smallest possible inconvenience from
the change in her position. Well, if I have hesitated to say “yes,” it
is only because it is likely enough, after all, that I shall not long
survive you.’
It was unbelievable. Genji had consented; and apparently in the
most whole-hearted way, for it was henceforward assumed on both sides
that he would in due course marry[87] Nyosan himself.
Murasaki had already heard some rumour of Suzaku’s intention. Her
first feeling was one of alarm. But then she reminded herself of all
the groundless and unnecessary misery she had suffered on finding
that Genji was still visiting Princess Asagao. So determined was she
not to attach undue importance to the affair that on his return she
refrained even from asking him whether the subject had been discussed.
He meanwhile naturally assumed that she knew nothing about the matter,
and was wondering what line she would take. If there were to be
difficulties, they could only last for a very short time. Murasaki
would soon realize that the presence of this girl in the house, even
as his wife, would make no difference whatever to her own position.
But he knew that promises and assurances on his side would be of no
avail. Time alone would convince Murasaki that nothing could change
his feelings towards her; meanwhile, it was possible that a rather
troublesome period was ahead. It was now so long since the slightest
difficulty or suspicion had arisen between them that the idea of saying
anything likely to upset her or interfere even for a few moments
with the habitual tenderness of the hours they spent alone together
was extremely painful to him. That night at any rate, he thought,
matters might be left as they were, and he made no reference to his
conversation with Suzaku.
Next day the weather was wretched, and while storms of snow swept a
sullen sky he sat with Murasaki, laying plans for the future, and
recalling many episodes of their common past.
‘I thought I had better go and see the ex-Emperor before it was too
late,’ said Genji at last. ‘It was in many ways a painful meeting. He
seems unable to think about anything but who is going to look after
this daughter of his, little Princess Nyosan. He at once attacked me
on the subject, and considering the pitiable state he was now in, I
felt it was impossible to refuse.... I know that tiresome stories will
be put about, I cannot help that.... As a matter of fact he made a
similar proposal to me some time ago, but indirectly, through a servant
of mine. On that occasion I refused unhesitatingly, for I did not at
all like the idea of taking on fresh responsibilities at my age. But
when, during my visit, he returned (as I had thought it impossible
he should do) to the same subject, and besought me passionately not
to persist in my refusal, I could not help feeling that it would be
inhuman to hold out.... She will not in any case come here until Suzaku
moves into his mountain retreat. I can quite understand that you would
rather I had not consented. But please believe me that, at the worst,
nothing can happen which will make the slightest difference to you.
Try to enter into Suzaku’s feelings. I am sure that if you do so, you
will be glad that I am helping him in this way. With a little tact and
forbearance on both sides, I do not see why there should be any great
difficulty....’
He had only to tease her a little—pretend jokingly to admire some quite
absurd and impossible individual, and instantly Murasaki would fall
into a panic, certain that here was the beginning of a final disastrous
episode. Yet now, for some reason, she felt that at all costs he must
not see what was passing through her mind, and she answered quietly:
‘Poor Suzaku! I do not see how under such circumstances you could
possibly have refused. Nor should I dream of raising any objection on
my own account. Indeed, I shall be very unhappy if I do not quickly
succeed in convincing her that, as far as I am concerned, she is doubly
welcome here. For not only am I touched by her father’s plight, but
I also recollect a fact of which she no doubt is fully aware, though
you have not mentioned it: her mother, Lady Wistaria, was my father’s
sister. I should be thought churlish indeed if I did not make a cousin
feel at home in my house....’
He knew her too well not to guess that, behind this tone of complete
reasonableness and accord, there might easily be hidden quite other
thoughts and feelings. But if this did indeed, quite contrary to what
he had expected, turn out to be her real attitude, if she managed both
to make the little princess feel at her ease, and at the same time to
be happy herself, then he would have more reason than ever to prize
her as the greatest treasure that life had yielded to him. ‘There are
sure to be all sorts of absurd rumours ...’ he said. ‘Do not pay any
attention to them. Remember that, as regards matters of this kind, the
most circumstantial accounts frequently lack the slightest foundation
in fact. It is best to observe for oneself, and not let outside stories
affect one’s judgment. So whatever you may hear, wait till your own
experience confirms it before you decide that I am not treating you as
I should....’
After all, she thought to herself afterwards, the care of this girl
was a duty that he could not possibly have avoided. It had fallen upon
him as it were from the sky, and to be cross with him for accepting
it would be ridiculous. If Nyosan had been some girl that he had
taken a fancy to or gone out of his way to befriend, the case would
have been different. But it was perfectly true that this step had
been imposed upon him; and Murasaki was determined to show the
world that she was not going to lose her head. But she knew that once
people take a dislike to one, it does not make much difference how one
behaves.... For example, her stepmother had even held her responsible
for Makibashira’s fall; it was Murasaki’s jealousy (so this woman
asserted) that had forced Genji to plant Tamakatsura in Higekuro’s way!
No doubt her tortuous imagination would not fail to supply equally
complicated slanders in the present case. For though generous and
long-suffering, Murasaki was capable of making judgments that were by
no means devoid of sharpness. And now, though as yet all was well,
there came back to her again and again the thought that perhaps the
dreaded turning-point had come. His confidence, his devotion, the whole
sovereignty in his affections that had been so long her pride, would
begin to slip away from her....
But during all this time there was nothing in her behaviour which could
have suggested to her companions that any such fears were passing
through her mind.
So the year drew to a close. Suzaku was still lying bedridden in the
Capital, but he had now made up his mind that Nyosan was to move into
the New Palace at once. Not only were the various aspirants to her hand
much put out at hearing that Genji was to take possession of her, but
the Emperor himself, who had counted on being given a chance of adding
her to his establishment, was distinctly disappointed. However, he
did not think it worth while disputing the matter, and decided to let
things take their course. This year, as has already been said, Genji
was to celebrate his fortieth birthday, and resolutions were passed by
the Government concerning the festivities that were to mark this event.
The prospect was a formidable one for Genji, who had always disliked
pompous anniversaries and commemorations. The whole country seemed
bent upon devising elaborate and costly methods of disturbing his
peace, all of which he discouraged firmly.
But there was one small attention which he had no chance of
forestalling. On the third day of the first month, being a day of
the Rat, Tamakatsura determined to take upon herself the customary
presentation of spring shoots.[88] She allowed no breath of this
intention to leak out beforehand; but as wife of a State Minister she
could not appear without a considerable escort, and her arrival at
Genji’s palace made far more of a stir than she desired.
Genji’s seat was in the side-room opening out of the great Front Hall.
His dais was surrounded by newly-painted screens, and there were fresh
white canvas hangings round the walls; but the special stools, tables
and stands used in the formal celebration of a fortieth birthday had
all been dispensed with. The forty little mats laid out around him,
his cushions and seat—indeed all the details of his installation were
very daintily chosen. The four boxes containing the customary presents
of clothing were displayed upon two stands of mother-of-pearl inlaid
with enamel. These clothes (complete outfits for both winter and
summer), together with the incense jars, medicine boxes, inkstand,
hairwashing appliances, comb boxes and such things were all of the
finest. The mirror-stand was of cedar-wood, and the mirror itself,
though no other substance was inlaid in the metal nor was any sort
of colouring applied to it, was grained on the back with a delicate
leaf-pattern. All these arrangements had been devised by Tamakatsura
herself, who had a particular gift for the happy ordering of such small
elegancies. The whole affair was very quiet and informal. Tamakatsura
had audience with him before he took his place on the birthday throne.
It was a long while since they had met, and, in the mind of each,
recollections of a curious, possibly even of an embarrassing kind
must have arisen. He seemed to her very young to be celebrating such
an anniversary, and looking at him she found herself wondering for a
moment whether there had not been some mistake! Could this be the head
of a household, the founder of a family? It was very difficult after
all these months of separation to know what tone to take up or even
what to talk about. But soon she found herself carrying on very much
the same sort of conversation as in the old days. She had brought with
her her two little boys.[89] Genji had often asked to see them, but
hitherto she had refused, and on this occasion it was only in obedience
to her husband’s absolute command that she had brought them to the New
Palace. They were handsome little fellows, both dressed exactly alike
in miniature Court cloaks and breeches, with their hair parted in the
middle and done up in a loop on either side. Speaking of growing old,
he said to her: ‘Please do not think that I do it on purpose. I should
have been perfectly content to remain just as I was; and indeed I could
keep up the pretence fairly well, did not such creatures as these, whom
I now see springing up on every side, convict me of being, in age at
any rate, a grandfather. Perhaps indeed I really am one; for I hear
very little of Yūgiri nowadays, and am not at all sure he would think
it worth while to tell me. However, I had quite made up my mind to go
on being young for a little while longer, when you of all people come
to warn me that I have overstepped the fatal mark....’
She too had outwardly suffered very little from the passage of the
years, though she seemed less diffident and retiring.
At the Presentation of the Spring Shoots, which followed a few
minutes later, she recited with great dignity and composure the
congratulatory poem:
‘With these new shoots fetched from the green hillside, young
pine-boughs have I brought to crown your fortunes with eternal Spring.’
The young shoots were presented for his inspection on four trays of
sandal-wood. Taking the great wine flagon in his hand, he recited the
answer: ‘Though loth to pile the years about my head, not lightly shall
I quit the field where Spring by Spring these pines spread wider shade.’
A number of visitors were assembled in the southern side-room. Prince
Hyōbukyō had made up his mind to stay away; but his absence being
noted, a special messenger was sent to summon him. Being nearly
related to so many of those who were concerned in to-day’s ceremony,
he could not, without marked discourtesy, have persisted in his
refusal, and towards noon he at last arrived. The spectacle of his
son-in-law Higekuro flaunting his new bride in the face of the company
was more than he could have been expected to bear with equanimity.
But Makibashira’s two children were there, and for their sakes he
did his best to be friendly, taking a hand, whenever he was wanted,
in the small arrangements of the ensuing ceremony. The presents, in
forty baskets and forty boxes, were offered by a band of noblemen
and courtiers, led by Yūgiri. The great flagon went round, and Genji
tasted the broth that had been brewed with Tamakatsura’s offering. The
August Cup and other utensils were daintily laid out on four low tables
of sandal-wood. The ex-Emperor was still thought to be in danger,
and consequently no professional musicians were employed. But the
flute-music was in charge of Tō no Chūjō, who was determined that an
occasion of such importance should not be marred by lack of music, and
had drawn up an excellent programme. As for other instruments, he
saw to it that the rarest and oldest of every kind should be produced,
setting the example himself by bringing out a Japanese zithern that
had for centuries been one of the most treasured possessions in his
family. He, the greatest performer of the time, played on it himself,
with delightful but somewhat embarrassing effect. For every one else
suddenly became shy, and when Genji asked Kashiwagi to play something,
the young man for a long while refused. But at last he overcame his
reluctance, which was a good thing, for his performance was by no
means inferior to that of his father. Every one was both pleased and
surprised; for such talent is very rarely inherited. And here must
be noted a point that is often overlooked: it is far easier to learn
ancient Chinese tunes, though every note has to be played exactly as
it is handed down, than to improvise upon the Japanese zithern, where
one has complete freedom, save for the necessity of giving scope to the
accompanying players. It was just in this way that Kashiwagi excelled.
He was now playing in concert with a full orchestra; but managed in the
most astonishing way to keep in touch with all the other instruments.
Tō no Chūjō had, in his solo, played with his zithern tuned very
low, so that the strings vibrated with a dull, rumbling sound. But
Kashiwagi’s was tuned to the ordinary high pitch, and this (by
contrast) gave to his playing a quality of lightness and gaiety. Never
had the company heard him in such good form.
About the middle of the second month Nyosan moved into the New Palace.
Great preparations were made for her reception; the room where the
Presentation of Young Shoots had taken place was set apart for her own
use, while several rooms in the neighbouring wing and galleries were
made ready for her attendants, after a great sweeping and scrubbing.
She brought her own furniture with her, just as is done by a
new arrival at the Emperor’s Palace. Her coming took on the aspect
of a great public ceremony, being attended by the whole Court. Genji
(though, his rank being equal to that of a retired Emperor, he was
under no obligation to do so) went out to assist her in alighting from
her coach.
The exchange of compliments[90] on the third day was carried out
in the most formal manner. Murasaki had naturally not been slow to
realize—what Genji had not hitherto definitely disclosed—that Nyosan
had come as a bride. The discovery came as a cruel blow, yet even so
there was no reason to suppose that the new-comer was likely in any
sense to take Murasaki’s place. After all, this was not the first time
that she had been called upon to suffer the presence of a rival in
the house. But hitherto these rivals had been without exception her
inferiors in birth, and not much less than her equals in age; whereas
Nyosan was a person of quite as much social consequence as herself,
and, into the bargain, was just entering upon that season of sunshine
and flowers to which Murasaki was already bidding farewell.
But she did not show, or hoped she did not show, any of these feelings,
and in the preparations for Nyosan’s arrival she gave Genji all the
help she could. While side by side they were devising plans for these
new household arrangements, she seemed to enter with the greatest
interest into every detail; and looking at her fondly, Genji wondered
whether any other woman in the world would have done the same. The
little princess, though now well on in her thirteenth year, was
very small for her age, and indeed still looked a mere child. Her
conversation and behaviour also savoured solely of the nursery,
and Genji could not help remembering how lively, how full of character
and imagination little Murasaki had been when twenty years ago he had
carried her to his home. But perhaps it was a good thing that the
new-comer was, except in actual years, so very much of a child. She
would certainly be less likely to get into scrapes. But unfortunately,
Genji reflected, people who do not get into scrapes are a great deal
less interesting than those who do.
During the first three nights Murasaki saw nothing of him, and though
this was quite natural under the circumstances, she felt it deeply;
for it was now several years since they had thus been separated. Each
evening she perfumed his clothes with more than ordinary care. Never
had she seemed to him more complete, more all-sufficing than at these
moments; and watching her grave, eager face as she bent over the work,
he wondered that a dying man’s pleadings and lamentations should have
sufficed to lead him into such a course. But stay! Did not his own
restlessness, his own insatiable curiosity have something to do with
this rash consent? There was Yūgiri. Young though he was, it had been
justly assumed that it was not worth while even approaching him with
the proposal to which Genji had so readily consented. ‘Just once more,’
he said on the third night. ‘After this I shall not have to desert you
again; or, if I ever do so, you may be certain it will not be at my own
desire. I must not give Suzaku the impression....’
His predicament seemed to her a strange and rather absurd one. ‘If it
is Suzaku and not yourself whom you are trying to please,’ she said,
smiling, ‘I am sure you can judge better than I can what will suffice
to keep him happy.’
In the end it was at Murasaki’s persuasion that, far later than he had
intended, he made his way to Nyosan’s room. But it was with aching
heart that she watched him cross the threshold, clad in the soft, fine
cloak that she had scented with her own hands.
If all this had happened a few years ago, at the time when she lived
constantly on the watch for the first signs of some such trouble, she
would have been better able to meet it. But lately she had grown used
to life running in an even tenour that seemed incapable of change,
and even if it had been a mere matter of rumour or suspicion, her
sense of security would have received a rude shock. As it was, she
knew that henceforward, come what might, she would not have many easy
moments; but of this she did not breathe a word to any one. Not so her
gentlewomen, among whom there was to-night a great deal of indignant
nudging and whispering: ‘Who would have thought we should ever live to
see such a day!’ ‘Well, this isn’t the first time he’s taken a fancy to
some one....’ ‘Of course not; but none of the others was anything to
worry about, so far as I ever heard. I don’t mean that even now there
is any real danger. But small difficulties are bound to crop up now
and again. It is not going to be any too pleasant a time for most of
us....’ Murasaki affected to be unconscious of these dialogues, and sat
talking, spiritedly enough, till a late hour in the night. Anxious that
her women should have no excuse for spreading in the world at large the
impression that she was taking up a hostile line towards Nyosan, she
said at last: ‘I am so glad that this young princess has come to live
with us. For though we are already so large a household, His Highness
badly needs new society. I think he will get on very well with her, and
she will make a fresh interest in his life. I too shall be delighted
to have her here, for since the Akashi Princess went away there has
been no one for me to play games with, and oddly enough I still enjoy
them just as much as when I was a child. It is too bad that people
are saying I am opposed to her living here. Nothing could be further
from the truth. Perhaps if His Highness were to take some one of my
own rank, or some one whom I regarded as very inferior, too much into
his confidence, I might for a time feel a little bit jealous. But as
it is, I am glad that he should have found any way of assisting this
unfortunate creature....’
With such sentiments as these it was hard for Nakatsukasa and Chūjō
no Kimi to keep patience, and they exchanged glances which clearly
meant: ‘Sympathy can be carried too far!’ Formerly they had both been
in Genji’s personal service; but for a long while past they had waited
upon Murasaki, and were both devotedly attached to her.
Meanwhile speculation was rife among the other ladies of the household
as to how this new development would affect Murasaki’s position; and
for the first time they felt a certain satisfaction in their own poor
estate, which, humdrum though it was, could never land them in one
of these humiliating predicaments.... To each of them separately it
occurred that it would be kind to call upon Murasaki, and they arrived
in rapid succession, thus bringing home to her in the most painful
fashion the fact that she had become an object of sympathy.
Again and again Murasaki told herself that life was very short. Soon
this and all else would be over; what sense could there be in minding
things so much? But when night came she felt she could not rest, and
it was only to avoid the comments of those about her that at last she
crept under the bedclothes. And though such nights as the one I am
describing had become common enough since Nyosan’s arrival, Murasaki
still felt awkward and lopsided as she tried to arrange herself in bed.
This reminded her of the days when he was at Suma. She found herself,
strangely enough, wishing that he were now equally far away.
Simply to know that he was alive—that was all she asked; and she
afflicted herself afresh by imagining him at the ends of the earth,
while she remained alone in the Capital. To vary this, she imagined her
own death, rapidly followed by his. Here she checked herself. A pretty
pass things had come to when she had to conjure up such visions in
order to allay the torment of reality!
A dismal wind was howling. She tried in vain to sleep, lying dead
still, that the gentlewomen who were near her might think she was
asleep despite the storm; and she was lying thus when a dreary
cock-crow seemed to tell that the night was past. But opening her eyes
she saw that it was still dark.
She had not all this while thought of Genji with any rancour or
hostility, but her distress was vivid enough to find a way into his
dreams, and it was after a terrifying vision of her that he woke up
with a start and hearing the cock crow told Nyosan he must be gone,
for it had been agreed that he should leave at daybreak, and now, in
his anxiety to discover whether Murasaki was in some special need of
him, he affected not to notice that, despite the crowing of the cock,
it was still black night. Nyosan was still so young that she liked
to have her nurses sleeping close at hand, and when Genji opened the
passage-door, they sat up and craned their necks after him. In the
east a faint semblance of light was beginning to show, dimly reflected
by the snow that lay on the path. The perfume of his dress lingered
where he had passed, and one of the nurses whispered, ‘Though black the
night....’[91]
The snow only remained in patches here and there, but the sand of the
garden-paths was very white, and often he was in doubt whether he was
going to tread on sand or snow. While he knocked at the outer door
of Murasaki’s room, he murmured to himself those lines of Po Chū-i:
In broken places of the Castle wall snow is still left;
Down streets unwoken by the morning drum no foot has yet stirred.
It was a long time before there was any answer to his summons, for
her people were quite unused to answering the door at such an hour,
and when at last they undid the bolts, he grumbled: ‘You have kept me
standing here till I am half frozen. A poor reward for hurrying home so
early! I wish now that I had not bestirred myself....’
He came to Murasaki’s bedside and pulled back the coverlet. As he
did so, with a quick movement she hid the sleeve of her dress, that
was still wet with the tears she had shed during the night. He began
treating her as though nothing were amiss, speaking with the utmost
tenderness and affection. But coax and pet as he might, she remained
serious and preoccupied, turning from him sorrowfully as though she
felt he had no right to have come. He sat watching her, full of
admiration and delight. Certainly it was not in search of beauty that
he had need to go abroad at night! He spent all day with her, recalling
a thousand tender passages in their past life together, begging her
not to shut her thoughts away from him. When night came he sent a note
to Nyosan’s quarters saying that the snowy weather had upset him and
that it was thought best he should remain where he was. The nurse, who
took his message, knew very well what to make of it, and came back in a
minute or two, saying curtly: ‘I have told my Lady.’ Evidently Nyosan’s
people were not best pleased with the excuse. What if they should carry
their complaint to the ex-Emperor? This was only the fourth night after
the marriage. Perhaps after all it was rather soon to begin suspending
his nightly visits; he had better invent some fresh excuse and go
to Nyosan at any rate this one time more. But a moment later, looking
at Murasaki, he wondered how it could ever have occurred to him as
possible to leave her. Meanwhile she on her side felt that he had
treated Nyosan almost contemptuously, and wished that he would take the
trouble to manage things a little better....
Next morning he sent a note of apology to Nyosan’s apartments, and
though it was not to be supposed that at her age she was very critical
in such matters, he trimmed his brush with the utmost care and wrote on
exquisitely white paper: ‘No deep drift bars my path, but with their
whirling these thin, parched snowflakes have bewitched my dizzy brain.’
This he tied to a sprig of plum-blossom, and sending for one of his
servants, bade him take it not across the garden,[92] but by way of the
western gallery. The answer was long in coming, and tired of waiting
he went back to Murasaki in the inner room. He was still carrying in
his hand the rest of the plum-branch from which he had detached the
spray, and conscious that Murasaki was looking at it curiously, he
said: ‘How pleasant it would be if all flowers had so delightful a
scent as this! However, it is a good thing for the other flowers that
the cherry-blossom cannot borrow this smell. The rest would seem to us
mere weeds, and we should never give them another thought again. The
plum-flower, however, has this advantage over the others, that it comes
first. Our eyes have not yet been sated with blossom, and we accord to
this earliest comer what is perhaps an undue attention. Then, wisely,
it vanishes, before the cherry has reached its prime....’
At this moment (when he had almost given up expecting it) Nyosan’s
answer at last arrived. It was on thin crimson paper, and the extreme
ingenuity and daintiness with which it was folded made his heart beat
fast as he opened it. Alas, her writing was still quite unformed,
and he wished that it had been possible to prevent Murasaki from
seeing it some while longer. Not that the letter contained anything in
the slightest degree intimate. But considering the writer’s rank and
what would naturally be expected of her, it seemed a shame to show so
childish a production. But to conceal it from Murasaki would be sure to
lead to misunderstandings, so he let her read what she could see of it
over his shoulder as she lay beside him. The poem ran: ‘So light the
last spring snow that, should the least waft of unkindness come, those
thin flakes soon would vanish down the windy cross-roads of the sky.’
It was indeed a childish, scrawling hand, far behind what one would
have expected in a girl of Nyosan’s years; but Genji merely glanced at
it and put the letter away. If it had come from any one else he would
certainly have discussed this strangely backward letter with Murasaki
and attempted to account for its inefficiency. As it was, he merely
said with a sigh: ‘Well, well! That at any rate must prove to you that
you have small ground for anxiety.’
During the day he paid a short visit to Nyosan’s rooms. He had taken
more trouble than ever with his costume, wishing her to feel that his
failure to appear last night was not due to carelessness or disrespect.
Her younger gentlewomen were easily mollified by the magnificence of
his get-up; but the head nurses regarded last night’s non-appearance
as a very grave omen. ‘Come, come,’ they said. ‘It’s no use his
trying to mend matters by wearing his smartest clothes.’ The little
princess was certainly very pretty; but all her surroundings were so
exquisitely appointed and she herself so marvellously dressed, that
looking at her one began to wonder whether, apart from her clothes and
grand belongings, she had any existence at all. It could not be said
that she was particularly shy; but her friendliness and composure
were those of a child that barely distinguishes between friends and
strangers, rather than of a young lady to whom experience has taught
the art of self-possession. Her father Suzaku, though always somewhat
effeminate and over-sensitive, or at any rate constantly criticized on
this score by his subjects, was assuredly not lacking in feeling for
the elegancies of life, and to Genji it was incomprehensible that he
should have allowed his favourite child to grow up backward in just
those accomplishments to which he himself had always paid the greatest
attention. Genji was upset, for the girl’s deficiencies were such as
must inevitably make her an uninteresting associate for some while to
come. However, he did not take an actual dislike to her, and soon began
attempting to draw her into conversation. She agreed with everything he
said, but did not succeed in introducing any fresh topic of her own,
and not so many years ago he would have set her down as a hopeless
simpleton. But recently he had grown much more tolerant. If one was
going to dismiss people because of a single shortcoming, there would
soon be no one left. He had made up his mind henceforward to get as
much pleasure as possible out of what was interesting in the people
he met and forget about their bad points. To be bored by this girl,
for whose hand in marriage the whole Court would in a short while have
been scrambling, was really too perverse. Yet far more than at any time
before Nyosan’s arrival he now felt how unique Murasaki was. Surely his
adoption of her was the one step in his life that he would never have
cause to regret. Such time as he spent with Nyosan (whether by day or
night) he found himself grudging more and more, till he was frightened
at his own increasing inability to live more than an hour or two on end
in any but Murasaki’s company.
The Crown Prince had taken an immense fancy to his little bride from
Akashi, and never allowed her out of his sight. One day she
announced that she was tired of Court and had decided to go home for a
while to Genji’s palace. But the Crown Prince would not hear of it. She
was obliged to give way; not however without considerable resentment,
for this was the first time in her life that she had ever failed to
get her way. In the summer she was not very well, and it was agreed in
principle that she should be allowed a short leave of absence. But day
after day her departure was deferred, and she began to feel as though
her marriage had sentenced her to perpetual captivity. Presently it
became clear that there was a special reason for her indisposition. Her
attendants would indeed have reached this conclusion sooner had she not
been so very young[93]; but as soon as it was apparent that she needed
rest and care, leave of absence was granted, and she moved into the
New Palace. Her old rooms were no longer available, and she was put
into a suite that opened out of Princess Nyosan’s quarters, her mother
of course accompanying her. This was the first time that the Lady of
Akashi had inhabited the New Palace without being separated from her
child, and her delight knew no bounds.
One day when Murasaki and Genji were about to visit the Crown
Princess’s rooms, Murasaki said to him: ‘Would not this be a good
opportunity for me to make Nyosan’s acquaintance? That dividing-door
could so easily be opened.... I have for some time past been meaning
to visit her, but it has always been very difficult to arrange. This
seems the best chance that is likely to turn up....’ ‘Certainly,
nothing could be easier,’ replied Genji, ‘you have only to walk in.
It is impossible to treat her otherwise than as a child. So far from
standing on ceremony with her, I hope you will help me to correct her
faults. It is the kindest thing you can do....’ He went to Nyosan,
and in the course of conversation said to her: ‘Later on this evening
Lady Murasaki will be visiting your neighbour, the Crown Princess.
It is an excellent opportunity for you to make her acquaintance, and
I hope you will allow her to come straight through into these rooms.
Murasaki is a delightful person, and she is just as fond of games as
you are. I believe you would have great fun together.’ Nyosan looked
rather scared. ‘I should not know what to say to her....’ she answered
helplessly. ‘Oh, that would be all right,’ he hastened to assure her.
‘She would talk, and you are quite good at finding things to say if
some one helps you out by leading the way. In any case, make friends
with her. That is all I ask.’
So anxious was he for them to get on well together that he had for some
time past been positively dreading the inevitable encounter, and had
done nothing on his side to promote it. For he feared that Murasaki
would, when it came to the point, find Nyosan’s childish ways merely
tiresome and her insipid conversation exasperating. However, this time
it was Murasaki herself who had suggested the meeting, and there could
be no sense in opposing it.
Meanwhile Murasaki went to her room to get ready for the visit. Even
while she did so she assured herself that, despite all the care she
was taking in her preparations and the feeling (dictated by all the
circumstances of the visit) that she was about to pay her court to a
reigning power, Nyosan was neither her superior in this household, nor
to any considerable extent in the world at large. While waiting for
Genji to fetch her, she began doing a little writing-practice, not
composing the poems, but writing old ones that she knew by heart. She
was not feeling depressed, but only the most desolate and love-lorn
verses came into her head, and by an odd accident each seemed in some
special way to fit her own case.
Coming from the presence of younger women, such as Nyosan, Genji
always expected that Murasaki would appear to him inevitably (and he
was willing to make allowance for it) a little bit jaded, a trifle
seared and worn. Moreover, he had lived with her so long, knew her,
as he supposed, so well by heart that, even had not age touched her
charms, it would scarcely have been strange if they no longer had power
to excite him. But as a matter of fact it was just these younger women
who failed to provide any element of surprise, whereas Murasaki was
continually astounding him; as indeed she did to-night, dressed in all
the splendour that the coming visit demanded, her clothes scented with
the subtlest and most delicious perfumes, her whole person ever more
radiant this year than last year, to-day than yesterday.
Seeing him enter, she hid the papers on which she had been writing
under the inkstand; but he rescued them before she could protest. Hers
was not a hand of the sort that occurs once in a generation, and is
remembered for ever afterwards. But there was great beauty in it, and
scanning the papers he found the verse: ‘Is autumn[94] near to me as
to those leafy hills, that even while I watch them grow less green?’
Taking her brush he wrote beside her poem: ‘Look to the moat! Sooner
shall yon bird’s emerald wings grow white, than autumn bind its frosts
about my Love.’
Again and again, from small indications that she gave him
unintentionally and unawares, he saw that she was very unhappy. If he
made no allusion to this, it was not either that he failed to observe
it, or that he did not know what struggles she made to conceal her pain.
With Murasaki the Crown Princess was quite as much at home as
with her own mother, and this part of the visit naturally passed off
agreeably enough. The girl had grown very good-looking, and Murasaki,
to whom her existence had once been a reminder of unpleasant things, no
longer felt in her society anything but the most unfeigned pleasure.
After a short conversation she proceeded through the dividing door
into Nyosan’s apartments. The little princess’s childish lack of
conventional small-talk proved to be the reverse of embarrassing, for
it enabled Murasaki from the start to treat her as a young relative
who had been put into her care. It was necessary first of all to
explain the rather complicated chapter of family history which made
them cousins. Sending for Nyosan’s head nurse, she said: ‘We have
been working things out, and it certainly seems beyond doubt that
your mistress and I are connected by family ties in many directions.
I hope you do not think it rude of me to have been so long in coming.
It seemed so difficult to arrange. But your mistress and I have now
made great friends, and I hope you will not only allow me to visit you
again, but also bring her to my rooms. Please consider henceforward
that, if we do not frequently come together, the fault will lie on
your side.’ ‘Well, madam,’ replied the nurse, ‘what with her mother
dead and her father shut away in a monastery, I am sure my little lady
would have a sad time of it, were it not for kindness such as yours.
But I know quite well that her father would never have brought himself
to leave the City if he had not been certain that you would welcome us
as you have done to-day, and make it your business to watch over our
young lady with a friendly eye. For, madam, as you see, she is very
young in her ways, and not only needs your help, but is used to being
guided by those about her, and fully expects you to take her under
your wing.’ ‘The ex-Emperor’s appeal was couched in such terms,’
answered Murasaki, ‘that Prince Genji could never have dreamed of
rejecting it; and I for my part was only sorry that it lay in my power
to do so little for this poor child’s happiness.’ Then turning abruptly
from this serious conversation, to which Nyosan had herself paid very
little attention, Murasaki began talking about picture-books and
dolls with such knowledge and enthusiasm, that Nyosan at once decided
she was not so dull as most grown-up people, nor indeed like one at
all. Henceforward they met very often, or when that was impossible,
exchanged little notes concerned exclusively with the behaviour of
Nyosan’s dolls and the fortunes or reverses of her other toys.
At the first news of Nyosan’s removal to the New Palace, people had
hastened to make the obvious prediction that Murasaki’s day would soon
be over. When, however, as time passed, it became abundantly clear that
Genji, so far from being exclusively interested in the new arrival,
was treating Murasaki with an even greater consideration than before,
they waxed indignant on Nyosan’s behalf, and said that if Murasaki had
him so completely in her power he ought never to have taken the little
princess into his house. Now came the news (disconcerting to gossip of
either kind) that perfect harmony prevailed between the two ladies, and
to these outside observers the situation lost all further interest.
The Crown Princess was now nearing her time. From the beginning of
the next year a service of continual intercession was kept up in
Genji’s palace, and in every Buddhist temple or shrine of the old
faith throughout the land prayers were said on her behalf. A previous
experience[95] had made Genji particularly nervous about such events,
and though it was a grief to him that Murasaki had never borne a
child, he was in a way relieved that he had never been called upon
to endure the agonies of suspense that such an event would have
inflicted upon him. The Princess’s extreme youth was another source of
anxiety, and when at the beginning of Kisaragi[96] her strength showed
signs of failing, not only Genji but all those in charge of her began
to take serious alarm. After careful investigation, the magicians
decided that the situation of her present room was unfavourable, and
insisted upon a change. To move her away from the palace altogether
would clearly be a very risky undertaking, and she was carried to the
Central Hall of her mother’s former apartments in the northern wing.
These had the advantage of being surrounded on every side by passages
and covered galleries in which it was possible to accommodate the
huge band of priests (with their altars and other gear) that had now
assembled in the palace. For every healer of any repute in the country
had been summoned to work his spells.
The Lady of Akashi, quite apart from the anxiety that she must in any
case feel at such a time, was in a state of the utmost suspense; for
the safe delivery of an heir would mean that all her sacrifices had not
been made in vain. On this occasion her mother, now a very old lady
indeed, had come up from the country, unable to bear the anxiety of
being at a distance from all news.
The Crown Princess knew very little about the circumstances of her
birth; but once admitted to her bedside, the old grandmother was soon
pouring out a tremulous flood of anecdotes and lamentations that,
confused though it was, for the first time did something towards
enlightening her. The girl had at first stared at this extraordinary
visitor, wondering who on earth she could be; but she was just aware of
the fact that she possessed a grandmother, and when it became evident
that this talkative old woman was certainly she, the Princess
tried to be as civil as she could. The visitor began describing Genji’s
life at Akashi, and the despair into which they had fallen at the time
of his sudden recall. ‘We never thought we should any of us set eyes
on him again,’ she said. ‘Oh dear, oh dear! If only I could have known
then that it was all going to work out for the best.... It was your
coming into the world that saved us. I don’t believe that but for you
we should ever have heard a word from him after he went away.’ And
she burst into tears of gratitude and joy. The Princess also wept,
partly because it always moves one to hear about one’s childhood,
partly because this revelation of the true facts about her birth had
come to her as something of a shock. She had always known that her
mother was not quite of the same class as the people with whom she now
associated. But the careful education she had received at Murasaki’s
hands, combined with the admiring attitude of all her companions at
Court, had destroyed in her the last trace of diffidence or timidity.
She had long felt herself to be in every way on an equality with the
greatest ladies in the land. With burning cheeks she recalled occasion
upon occasion when she had spoken scornfully of persons who were (as
she now realized) very far indeed from being her inferiors. The true
facts about her origin were probably known to most people at Court,
and though in her presence no sarcastic comment had ever been made,
she could imagine the mirth that (behind the scenes) had always been
provoked by her ignorant self-conceit. Akashi![97] Born at Akashi! What
a hideous thought! That things were as bad as that she had never for a
moment suspected; for it was her nature to turn away instinctively
from enquiries that were likely to yield unpleasant information. Well,
here indeed was a disagreeable and humiliating surprise. She wondered
how she would ever be able to hold up her head again.
She was obliged next to listen to a long account of her grandfather’s
odd ways; he had become, it seemed, a kind of rishi, living in the
world but not of it. A queer place she came from and queer people
she belonged to, thought the Princess, remembering the high line she
had always taken on questions of birth and breeding. At this moment
her mother entered, and noticed at once that she was looking very
rueful indeed. In the passages outside there was a great stir, for
the priests and magic-workers drawn from every quarter of the land
were just assembling to recite the Rites of the Day. But actually
in the Princess’s room all was quiet, and availing herself of this
opportunity the old nun had installed herself at the bedside and seemed
to have taken complete possession of her grand-daughter and all that
appertained to her.
‘I wish she wouldn’t do that,’ thought the Lady of Akashi as she
entered. ‘She might at least put up a small screen. Any one seeing
her planted at the bedside like that will wonder how on earth she
got there. You would think she was the herb-doctor come to give the
child a pill. How tiresome people do become at that age.’ The old
lady saw in a moment that she was thought to have taken too much upon
herself. But she was getting very hard of hearing, and, as was usual
when she was afraid she had missed some remark, she cocked her head on
one side: ‘Eh? Eh?’ ‘Really, she’s not so old as all that,’ thought
the Lady of Akashi. ‘She can’t be more than sixty-five, or at the
most sixty-six.’ The old lady looked very neat and respectable, even
dignified, in her nun’s robe; but her appearance was spoilt for
the moment by the fact that her eyes were red and swollen with weeping.
The Lady of Akashi knew only too well what this meant: her mother had
been reminiscing, and turning to the Princess she said nervously: ‘I
can see that grandmother has been telling all sorts of extraordinary
tales about the days of long ago. You must not believe everything she
says; for she is apt to mix up all sorts of fairy-stories, legends
and marvels with things that really happened. I am sure she has been
treating you to the oddest extracts from our family history.’ Her
suspicions were confirmed by the Princess’s extreme quietness; it was
only too evident that the old nun had chattered with the greatest
possible indiscretion. The Lady of Akashi had long ago decided that
the moment of the Crown Prince’s ascent to the Throne would be the
right occasion for revealing to the Princess in their entirety the
painful facts concerning her birth. As Empress she would have reached
the utmost limit of a woman’s ambition, and intelligence such as
this, disagreeable though it might be, could not greatly depress her.
But at the present moment it might have a very upsetting effect, and
she regretted that her mother should have thought fit to take such a
liberty.
The Rites of the Day were now over, and there was a great clatter as
the priests left their work. To distract the Princess’s thoughts her
mother now brought her some fruit, coaxing her with: ‘Could you not
manage just one of these?’ and such-like motherly phrases. The old
nun’s delight in the presence of her lovely grandchild manifested
itself in the most curious way. For whereas tears streamed from her
eyes and her brows were contracted into what looked like the most
disapproving frown, her lips were parted in a perpetual smile of
delight, revealing a painfully toothless mouth. So truly alarming was
the old lady’s expression that she was positively afraid of the effect
it might have upon the invalid, and tried to catch her mother’s
eye, apparently without success.
Presently, however, the old nun recited the verse: ‘Blame not the tears
of love that like a running tide have stranded this old bark upon a
profitable shore.’ ‘When I was young,’ she added, ‘people of the age I
am now were privileged to weep as often as they felt inclined.’
‘Following the pathway of that bark across the foam, I would retrace
its course and find the felt-roofed hut whence it was launched upon the
deep.’ Thus the young Princess wrote upon the sheet of paper that was
topmost in her writing-case; and the Lady of Akashi: ‘Though he that
lingers on that shore long since of every worldly thought has cleared
his breast, perchance of the heart’s darkness[98] a little clings to
him and clouds his nature still.’
There was then talk of the morning upon which they had parted with the
old recluse. The Princess, who was at that time a mere infant, had not
the haziest remembrance of this episode, but she could well believe
that it had been very affecting.
About the middle of the third month she had an extremely painless and
easy delivery, strangely at variance with what seemed to be portended
by her previous weakness and distress. It was with intense relief that
Genji heard of this event. The child was a boy; so that everything
had turned out in the happiest manner possible. Her present temporary
quarters were inconveniently far from the front of the house, but it
was pleasant for her to be so near her mother, and pleasant too for
the old nun to watch the arrival of the presents which poured in from
every side. She could indeed feel that the storm-tossed voyage of her
life had cast her up at last upon ‘a profitable shore,’ as she herself
had said. But this arrangement could not continue, as it was too
much at variance with traditional practice, and it was decided that
the Princess must be moved back into her own apartments. Here she was
visited by Murasaki, who found her sitting up in her white jacket,
holding the little boy in her arms. It was a pretty sight; but it was
hard indeed for Murasaki to accustom herself to the idea that the
little Princess from Akashi was a mother!
Not only was she herself without experience of this kind; but it so
happened that she had never before been brought into contact with such
events, for this was the first child to be born in the house. Her
delight in handling and attending to the child was so obvious that
the Lady of Akashi had not the heart to deprive her of these offices,
contenting herself with the bathing of the infant. She even consented
to play this part on the official occasion when the Crown Prince’s
envoy came to administer the Bath of Recognition,[99] and the man, who
had some general notion concerning the true state of affairs, thought
how disagreeable it must be for the Princess to be continually reminded
by her mother’s shortcomings of this flaw in her lineage. But to his
surprise he found during the performance of his duties that the Lady
from Akashi had dignity and high breeding enough to be the mother of
the grandest imaginable Princess.
Any further account of the birth-ceremonies would not be of special
interest, and I shall therefore hurry on with my story. It was on the
sixth night after the child’s birth that the Princess moved back into
her own quarters. On the seventh night the Emperor himself sent his
presents. Suzaku’s vows forbad that any gift from him should figure on
such an occasion; but it was generally understood that a magnificent
largesse from the Public Treasury, brought by Tō no Ben and Senji,
two officials of the Imperial Purse, was due to Suzaku’s instigation.
Presents of silk came in abundance, the Empress Akikonomu’s offering
exceeding that of the Emperor himself. The various princes and
Ministers vied with one another in the magnificence of their gifts,
and even Genji, who hated display and was apt to cut down all public
demonstrations to the minimum, this time saw to it that everything
should be carried through with the utmost splendour. Indeed the whole
Court was in such a state of chatter and excitement that my head was
in a whirl, and I forgot to make any note of the many beautiful and
interesting ceremonies that took place in the Palace at the time of
this little Prince’s birth.
Genji, too, constantly took the child in his arms. ‘Yūgiri,’ he once
said, ‘has never invited me to make the acquaintance of his children,
so that it is a great treat for me to be allowed to handle this pretty
fellow....’
The child was filling out fast. It was high time to find nurses for
him, but Genji, rather than employ persons whom he did not know, spent
some time searching round among those in his employ for ladies of good
birth and intelligence with whose record he was thoroughly familiar.
Through all this period the behaviour of the Lady of Akashi provoked
universal admiration. She had shown dignity without touchiness,
humility without disagreeable self-abasement. Hitherto Murasaki had
always continued to feel a slight discomfort in her presence. But
after the birth of the Prince they became much better friends. Though
childless herself, she was extremely fond of children. She made the
Guardian Dolls[100] and other toy figures with her own hands, and would
sit for hours working their joints and making them do tricks.
During the third month there was a spell of delightful weather,
and on one of these bright, still days Prince Sochi and Tō no Chūjō’s
son Kashiwagi called at the New Palace. ‘I am afraid things are very
quiet here,’ Genji said to them. ‘At this time of the year, when
there are no public or private festivities of any kind, it is harder
than ever to keep people amused. I wish I could think of some way to
distract you.... Yūgiri was here just now. I cannot think what has
become of him. I suppose we shall have to watch some more of this
shooting on horseback; though I confess that for my part I am sick to
death of it. I expect Yūgiri caught sight of some of the young men
who always clamour for it, and that was why he vanished so soon.’ ‘I
saw Yūgiri,’ some one said. ‘He is in the fields near the Racecourse,
playing football. There are a lot of them there....’ ‘I am not myself
very fond of watching football,’ said Genji. ‘It is a rough game. But I
feel that to-day we all need something to wake us up ...’ and he sent a
message to Yūgiri asking him to come round to the front of the house.
The young man presently appeared accompanied by a band of courtiers. ‘I
hope you have not left your ball behind,’ he said to them. ‘How have
you arranged the teams?’ Yūgiri told him how they had been playing,
and promised to find a fresh ground where the game could be seen from
the windows of the house. The Crown Princess having now rejoined her
husband, her apartments were vacant, and as there was a large stretch
of ground not intersected by rivulets or in any other way obstructed,
this seemed the best place to set up the posts. Tō no Chūjō’s sons,
both young and old, were all expert players. Neither the hour nor
the weather could have been bettered, for it was the late afternoon,
and there was not a breath of wind. Even Kōbai abandoned himself
with such excitement to the game that Genji said: ‘Look at our Privy
Counsellor![101] He has quite forgotten all his dignities. Well, I
see no harm in a man shouting and leaping about, whatever his rank may
be, provided he is quite young. But I am afraid I have long passed the
age when one can go through such violent contortions without becoming
ridiculous. Look at that fellow’s posture now. You must admit it would
suit a man of my years very ill.’
Yūgiri soon induced Kashiwagi to join in the game, and as, against a
background of flowering trees, these two sped hither and thither in the
evening sunlight, the rough, noisy game suddenly took on an unwonted
gentleness and grace. This, no doubt, was in part due to the character
of the players; but also to the influence of the scene about them.
For all around were great clumps of flowering bushes and trees, every
blossom now open to its full. Among the eager group gathered round the
goal-post, itself tinged with the first faint promise of green, none
was more intent upon victory than Kashiwagi, whose face showed clearly
enough that there was a question of measuring his skill against that
of opponents, even in a mere game; it would be torment to him not to
prove himself in a different class from all the other players. And
indeed he had not been in the game for more than a few moments when it
became apparent, from the way in which he gave even the most casual
kick to the ball, that there was no one to compare with him. Not only
was he an extremely handsome man, but he took great pains about his
appearance and always moved with a certain rather cautious dignity and
deliberation. It was therefore very entertaining to see him leaping
this way and that, regardless of all decorum. The cherry-tree[102] was
quite near the steps of the verandah from which Genji and Nyosan were
watching the game, and it was strange to see how the players,
their eye on the ball, did not seem to give a thought to those lovely
flowers even when they were standing right under them. By this time
the costumes of the players were considerably disordered, and even the
most dignified amongst them had a ribbon flying loose or a hat-string
undone. Among these dishevelled figures a constant shower of blossom
was falling. Yūgiri could at last no longer refrain from looking up.
Just above him was a half-wilted bough. Pulling it down, he plucked a
spray, and taking it with him, seated himself on the steps with his
back to the house. Kashiwagi soon joined him, saying: ‘We seem to have
brought down most of the cherry-blossom. The poet[103] who begged the
spring wind “not to come where orchards were in bloom” would have been
shocked by our wantonness....’ He turned his head and looked behind him
to where Nyosan and her ladies were dimly visible beyond their curtains.
Kashiwagi had been on intimate terms with the ex-Emperor Suzaku, and
at the time when her future was still in question had corresponded
occasionally with Nyosan. Suzaku was aware of this, and seemed on
the whole to encourage it. Kashiwagi was therefore both surprised
and disappointed when her marriage with Genji was announced. He had
become very much interested in her, and through one of her gentlewomen
with whom he happened to be acquainted he still heard a great deal
about her. This, however, was but a poor consolation; and to make his
chagrin the greater, he heard rumours that Nyosan was very inadequately
appreciated at the New Palace, Lady Murasaki still retaining an
undiminished hold over His Highness’s affections. Kashiwagi might be
her inferior in birth and thus unsuited to claim her as a wife; but
at any rate she would not in his house have been subjected to the
humiliations that he supposed her now to be enduring. Tired of
merely hearing news about her health and employments, he made friends
with a certain Kojijū, the little daughter of Nyosan’s nurse, and
tried to persuade her to carry messages. One never knew what might not
happen. After all, Genji was always talking of retiring to a monastery.
Some day he might really do so, and then would come Kashiwagi’s second
chance. Meanwhile he continued to plot and scheme for a renewal of the
acquaintance.
And now on the day of the football match he found himself not many
steps away from her. As usual, her gentlewomen were not under very good
control, and a patch of bright sleeve or skirt constantly obtruded, as
some spectator, in her excitement, tugged back a corner of the curtains
through which the ladies of the house were watching the game. And
behind the curtains there showed all the time gay strips of colour,
flashing like prayer-strips at the roadside on a sunny spring day. The
Princess’s screens-of-state were carelessly arranged; she was not in
the least protected on the side from which she was most likely to be
seen. Still less was she adequately prepared for such an accident as
now occurred; for suddenly a large cat leapt between the curtains in
pursuit of a very small and pretty Chinese kitten. Immediately there
was a shuffling and scuffling behind the screens, figures could be
seen darting to and fro, and there was a great rustling of skirts and
sound of objects being moved. The big cat, it soon appeared, was a
stranger in the house, and lest it should escape it had been provided
with a leash, which was unfortunately a very long one, and had now
got entangled in every object in the room. During its wild plunges
(for it now made violent efforts to get free) the creature hopelessly
disarrayed the already somewhat disorderly curtains, and so busy were
those within disentangling themselves from the leash that no one
closed the gap. In the foreground was plainly visible a group of
ladies in a state of wild excitement and commotion. A short way behind
them was a little figure standing up, dressed in a long robe without
mantle. It was a red plum-blossom gown, with many facings, that showed
one overlapping another, in different tinges of the same colour, like
the binding of a book. Her hair, shaking like a skein of loose thread,
was prettily trimmed and thinned out at the ends, but still reached to
within a few inches from the ground. The contrast between the numerous
overlapping thicknesses of her dress and her own extreme slimness and
smallness was very alluring, her movements were graceful, and her hair,
above all when seen with her head in profile, was unusually fine.
Kashiwagi, as he peered through the growing darkness, wished that the
accident had happened somewhat earlier in the evening. At this moment
the cat gave a frenzied scream, and Nyosan turned her head, revealing
as she did so a singularly unconcerned and confident young face. Yūgiri
feared that he would be held responsible for this indiscretion, and
was on the point of going up to the window and protesting; but he felt
that this would draw further attention to the incident, and contented
himself with clearing his throat in a loud and significant manner.
Nyosan immediately vanished amid the shadows, rather too rapidly to
suit the taste of Yūgiri, who had a considerable curiosity about the
girl, and would, had he dared, gladly have availed himself of this
opportunity to look at her for a little while longer. But by now the
cat had been extricated; the screens and curtains were restored to
proper order, and there was no chance that the intriguing vision of a
moment ago would be repeated. And if it was with a slight feeling of
disappointment that Yūgiri saw his hint so rapidly obeyed, it may be
imagined how loud Kashiwagi’s heart had all this while been beating.
From the first moment of her appearance there had been no doubt
which was she, for she was differently dressed from any of the ladies
about her, they wearing Chinese cloaks, and she an under-robe without
cape or mantle. He hid, or hoped that he hid, the excitement through
which he was passing. But Yūgiri guessed easily enough what impression
such an episode was likely to have made, and being still in a way
identified with this house, he blushed for Nyosan’s immodesty. The
cat was now straying at large, and to distract his thoughts Kashiwagi
called it to him. The creature jumped into his lap and began purring
complacently. It had not long ago been in Nyosan’s own arms; of this
he was sure, for its soft fur still exhaled a strong perfume of the
royal scent that only she could wear. At this moment Genji arrived,
and seeing Kashiwagi fondling the Princess’s cat with an expression of
dreamy tenderness, he said sharply to the young men on the steps: ‘You
had better not sit so close to the house. It is embarrassing for the
people in the room behind.... Won’t you come in here?’ and he led them
through a neighbouring door. They were soon joined by Prince Sochi, and
a lively conversation began. The football players now began to arrive,
taking their seats on straw cushions lined up along the verandah,
and refreshments were served, first and foremost the usual Camellia
cakes,[104] then pears, oranges and other such fruits, the exhausted
players stretching for them greedily as the tray came their way.
Finally, the great wine-flagon went round, accompanied only by dried
fish.
Kashiwagi took very little part in the conversation and gazed all the
while straight in front of him, apparently at the flowering trees in
the garden. But Yūgiri knew well enough what vision it was that floated
before his friend’s eyes. The whole episode was very unfortunate.
It must certainly have given Kashiwagi the impression that the
Princess was extremely loose in her ways. He could not imagine Murasaki
allowing herself to be exposed like this, and the fact that such things
could happen showed plainly how right the world was in declaring
Genji to be reprehensibly inattentive to his new wife. Of course the
Princess’s lack of precaution was not due to shamelessness, but rather
to the unsuspecting and serene self-confidence of extreme youth. All
this no doubt was very attractive; but if he were in Genji’s place he
should find it also somewhat perturbing.
Kashiwagi for his part was not occupied in censoring either Nyosan or
her attendants for the carelessness to which he owed his vision of
her. Rather he regarded the affair as a happy accident—an omen, if one
liked to consider it so, that his attachment was destined to ripen into
something less shadowy than had hitherto seemed probable.
Genji began talking to Kashiwagi of his early rivalries with Tō no
Chūjō: ‘At football,’ he said, ‘your father was always far ahead of
me. I do not suppose that you have actually learnt your skill from
him, for such things cannot be taught; but no doubt you inherit an
aptitude for the game. This evening you certainly gave us a masterly
display....’ Kashiwagi laughed. ‘I am afraid,’ he said, ‘that of all
my father’s talents this is the only one I have inherited. I am sorry
for my descendants; apart from this one trifling gift, they will have
nothing to inherit at all.’ ‘Never mind,’ said Genji, ‘so long as there
is something at which you are better than other people, you deserve
a place in history. You shall figure in your family records as a
footballer; that would be rather amusing....’
While they talked and laughed the conviction was borne in upon
Kashiwagi that no one in the world could possibly turn from Genji
to him. Nyosan might like him, but there was no conceivable way in
which she would not be the loser by such an exchange. His hopes, so
high a moment before, suddenly sank to nothingness. She who had been
so near in a moment became in his thoughts utterly inaccessible and
remote, and he left the New Palace in the depths of despair.
He drove away in the same carriage as Yūgiri, and said to him
presently: ‘One ought really to visit Genji more often; particularly
at this time of year, when there is so little to do. He said he hoped
we should come again before the blossom was all gone. It is getting
very near the end of Spring now. Do meet me here one day this month,
and bring your bow....’ A day was fixed upon, but this was not what
was really in his mind. He was trying to find some way of introducing
Nyosan’s name into the conversation, and presently he said: ‘Genji does
not seem to worry much about any one except Lady Murasaki. I wonder
how the young Princess feels about it. She is used to being made such
a fuss of by her father that I cannot help thinking she must find her
new life rather wretched.’ ‘You are entirely wrong,’ Yūgiri replied.
‘My father’s relations with Murasaki are of a kind it is difficult
for outside people to understand. He adopted her when she was still a
child, and there is naturally a great intimacy between them. He would
not for the world do anything to hurt her feelings; but if you suppose
this means he does not care for Nyosan, you are very much mistaken.’
Yūgiri had raised his voice. ‘Don’t talk so loud,’ Kashiwagi rebuked
him, ‘the grooms can hear every word you say. For my part I am certain
that she is often very unhappy, and I do not think any one has a
right to put a girl of her birth and breeding into such a position as
this....’ He seemed to take the matter very much to heart.
Kashiwagi still lived in his father’s house, all alone in the
eastern wing. It was not a very lively form of existence for a man of
his age, but this solitude was entirely of his own seeking. Sometimes
he felt wretched, and thought of marrying the first girl who came his
way. But then he remembered that his father was Grand Minister. There
was no reason at all why he should content himself with a plebeian
marriage, and he determined to remain as he was until he obtained the
bride to whom he considered himself in every way entitled. To-night he
sat all alone in his room puzzling till his head ached.... How should
he ever manage to see her again, how contrive to catch even so hasty
and unsatisfying a glimpse as he had enjoyed to-day? With other women
it was different. There was always the chance that some religious
vow or omen of the stars might drive them into the open. And if such
things did not spontaneously occur, they could easily be arranged....
But with Nyosan these simple and recognized expedients would be of no
avail. Nothing was more improbable than that she should ever leave her
apartments; and it was difficult enough even to let her know of his
feelings. However, he wrote a letter (by no means the first with which
Nyosan’s maid Kojijū had in recent days been entrusted): ‘Madam, one
day not long since, the springtime lured me to trespass within the
barrier that hides your sovereign precincts from the grosser world,
an audacity for which I fear you condemn me with the bitterest scorn.
On that occasion, Madam, like the poet[105] of old, “I saw, yet did
not see.” Since when such a turmoil has reigned in my heart as only
the vision of what those baffling shadows hid from me can ever put to
rest.’ With this was the poem: ‘Though flowers of sorrow only, my hand
could reach on the high tree, would I were back amid the shadows
of that provoking night.’
Kojijū knew nothing about the ‘day not long since,’ and thought that
the letter was an unusually pointless collection of stock lamentations.
Waiting for a moment when Nyosan was alone she brought in the letter,
saying: ‘I wish your Kashiwagi were a little less faithful. I am tired
of bringing these continual messages. Why then do I accept them? you
ask. I suppose it is because I can see that he would be in despair if
I refused. But why should I mind his being in despair? Really, I have
not the least idea....’ and she burst out laughing. ‘What odd things
you say,’ replied Nyosan, taking the letter. By the allusion to ‘seeing
yet seeing not’ she understood at once that he had caught sight of
her during that unfortunate accident with the curtains. She blushed,
not however at the idea of Kashiwagi’s having seen her, but at the
recollection that Genji had more than once warned her not to expose
herself in Yūgiri’s presence. Now she remembered that Yūgiri had on
that occasion been sitting at Kashiwagi’s side. What one saw, the other
too would have seen. Her sole concern was lest Yūgiri should mention
her carelessness to Genji, and then she would get a scolding. As had
often occurred before, the task of writing an answer fell to Kojijū.
Only a conventional acknowledgment was necessary, and she dashed off
the following: ‘Why you should speak of “seeing, yet not seeing” passes
my comprehension. Despite the embarrassment in which your proximity
placed us, you certainly posted yourself at a point of vantage where
nothing was likely to escape you.’ With this was the poem: ‘Feel what
you will, but tell not to the world that where no hand may reach, upon
the mountain cherry’s topmost bough your heart you fain would hang.’
The promised archery meeting at the New Palace took place on
the last day of the third month. Kashiwagi felt very little inclined
for company, and if he accepted the invitation it was only in the
vague hope of some second accident such as that which had occurred
at the football match. Yūgiri at once noticed that his friend was
still particularly silent and distracted. He knew well enough what
this meant, and was genuinely distressed not only at the prospect of
unpleasant scenes in which he would himself be involved, but also on
Kashiwagi’s account. For Yūgiri was extremely fond of him, and could
never bear to see him, even for small everyday reasons, depressed or in
ill-humour.
On this occasion Kashiwagi had come with the firm intention of
behaving with perfect propriety, for not only did he stand in great
awe of Genji, but also was extremely sensitive to public opinion in
general, and nothing was more painful to him than the idea of his name
figuring in the scurrilous gossip of the Court. If he had designs of
any kind, they were not upon Nyosan but upon her cat. A fancy seized
him that it would make him less miserable if he could get possession
of this creature and have it always about him. But even this, as he
well knew, was a mad idea, and under the circumstances to purloin
the cat was not much easier than to make off with its mistress. The
archery meeting proved uneventful. But a few days afterwards he was
reminded of his project by seeing in the Crown Prince’s rooms a very
handsome kitten which had just arrived as a present from the Emperor’s
Palace. His Majesty’s court-cat had just given birth to a large family
of kittens, which had been distributed among his acquaintances. ‘I
happened the other day,’ said Kashiwagi casually, ‘to catch sight of a
remarkably fine cat belonging to one of the ladies at Genji’s palace.
I never saw so handsome a creature. By the way, I think they said
that it is your sister Nyosan’s....’ This was a very good move,
for the Crown Prince had a passion for cats, and the subject was one
that he was willing to converse upon for any length of time. He began
questioning Kashiwagi about this marvellous cat of Nyosan’s, which
he did not remember to have seen. ‘You have some of the same breed
here,’ said Kashiwagi, ‘but there was something uncommon about that
particular creature. It seemed so much more friendly and intelligent
than any that I have ever known.’ Thus began a long conversation upon
the merits of different cats. The Crown Prince first of all borrowed
those belonging to his wife, the Akashi Princess, and finally sent
a message to his sister Nyosan asking if she would mind lending him
hers. Upon its arrival every one agreed that it was undoubtedly
a very fine cat. Kashiwagi, who knew the Crown Prince would give
his sister a full account of the reception that her favourite had
received, thought it better on this occasion not to display any great
interest in the animal. But some days later he called again, on the
pretext of giving the Prince a long promised lesson upon the zithern.
‘Which is the fellow I saw at Genji’s?’ he asked, in the course of
conversation. ‘Is he still here? You have so many that I find it
hard to keep them apart....’ But as a matter of fact he had already
recognized Nyosan’s cat, and was soon fondling it upon his lap. ‘Isn’t
he behaving beautifully?’ said the Crown Prince. ‘Considering you only
saw him in the distance the other day, it is extraordinary that he
should recognize you. But he certainly does, for they are by nature
very distrustful creatures, and will not let any one touch them unless
they remember having seen him before. However, our cats often remember
some one who has only been here for a moment and took no particular
notice of them.’ ‘They may not have reasoning powers such as we have,’
answered Kashiwagi, ‘but I am convinced that some of them at any
rate have souls like ours.’ Presently he added: ‘Perhaps, as you have
so many delightful cats of your own here, you would lend me this one
of Nyosan’s for a little while?’ It was only after he had made this
request that he realized how eccentric it must appear.
The cat lay close by him all night, and the first thing he did in the
morning was to see to its wants, combing it and feeding it with his own
hand. The most unsociable cat, when it finds itself wrapped up in some
one’s coat and put to sleep upon his bed—stroked, fed and tended with
every imaginable care—soon ceases to stand upon its dignity; and when,
a little later, Kashiwagi posted himself near the window, where he sat
gazing vacantly before him, his new friend soon stole gently to his
side and mewed several times as though in the tenderest sympathy. Such
advances on the part of a cat are rare indeed, and smiling, he recited
to the animal the following verse: ‘I love and am not loved. But you,
who nestle daily in my dear one’s arms—what need have you to moan?’
He gazed into the cat’s eyes as he spoke, and again it began mewing
piteously, till he took it up into his lap, and he was still nursing
it thus when the first visitors of the day began to arrive. ‘This is
very sudden,’ they whispered to one another. ‘He used not to take the
slightest interest in such creatures.’ Presently a messenger arrived
from the Crown Prince, asking that the cat might be sent back at once.
But Kashiwagi refused to part with it.
[82]The Shining One.
[83] See vol. ii, p. 125.
[84] I.e. not a member of the Imperial Family.
[85] One of Genji’s retainers.
[86] Kōkiden.
[87] Since Aoi’s death Genji had no wife, Murasaki being technically
only a chief concubine, her mother’s low rank making it impossible for
her to be a _kita no kata_ or ‘legitimate consort.’
[88] A Chinese custom, imitated by the Japanese Court.
[89] They must have been about four and three years old.
[90] On the third day after the arrival of a bride the husband notified
the bride’s father that the marriage had been consummated and was
likely to prove a success.
[91] ‘Though black this night of spring, what guide need we save the
scent of their blossoms to guide us whither the plum-trees bloom?’
[92] That Murasaki might not see.
[93] Barely fourteen.
[94] _Aki_ means ‘autumn,’ but also ‘to be tired of,’ and there is the
secondary meaning: ‘Is the day when Genji will grow tired of me near at
hand?’
[95] Aoi’s death in childbirth.
[96] The second month.
[97] Not to be born in the City was regarded as a severe social
disqualification, whoever the parents might be. In the narrative she is
called the Princess from Akashi; but it must not be supposed that she
was ever so addressed.
[98] ‘The heart’s darkness,’ _kokoro no yami_, is the love of parent
for child.
[99] By sending this representative the Crown Prince acknowledged
paternity of the child.
[100] The original object of dolls is to divert evil influences from
the child.
[101] Kōbai was now a member of the Grand Council.
[102] The four goal-posts were a pine-tree, a maple, a willow and a
cherry-tree, growing in tubs.
[103] Fujiwara no Yoshikaze, 9th century.
[104] Always served to footballers.
[105] In section 99 of the _Tales of Isé_ the poet ‘sees, yet does not
see,’ a lady in her carriage at the summer race-meeting.
CHAPTER VII
WAKANA
(‘Young Shoots’)
PART II
So time[106] went by, bringing with it remarkably few changes either
at home or in the world at large. Even so important an event as the
abdication of the Emperor Ryōzen seemed to make very little difference,
for though he had no heir of his own, his nephew the Crown Prince had
now reached manhood, and would, it was confidently expected, merely
carry on his predecessor’s policy. The actual resignation came very
suddenly, ill-health being given as a pretext. But during the eighteen
years of his reign Ryōzen had never ceased ardently to long for an
opportunity of escaping from a position that entailed at every turn the
most dangerous concealments and deceptions.[107] He had many friends
with whom it would be possible for him as a private person to associate
in a far freer and more interesting way; moreover his childlessness
(decreed, as he thought, by Heaven as a punishment for his unwilling
impiety), would not weigh upon him so heavily when the future of the
Throne was no longer involved.
As sister to the new Emperor, Nyosan naturally became more prominent
than ever both at Court and in the estimation of the populace. But
she was still very far from occupying a position anything like that
of Murasaki, upon whom, as the years went by, Genji seemed to
become more and more dependent. Yet it was from time to time clear
that, despite his unchanging tenderness and confidence, Murasaki was
not wholly contented with her present position. ‘There are too many
people in this house,’ she would sometimes say; ‘I wish I lived in some
quieter place, where I could pursue my devotions undisturbed. I have
reached an age when one cannot expect much more pleasure in this world,
and had better spend the time in preparing oneself for the next.’ But
Genji always assured her that he too intended quite soon to quit the
Court, and indeed would long ago have done so, had he not feared to
leave her in solitude. ‘Life here would be intolerable without you,’ he
said. ‘Will you not wait till I have arranged to take my vows?’
One night, on going to Murasaki’s apartments, Genji found she was not
there. It was already long past midnight when she returned. There had
been music, it appeared, in Princess Nyosan’s rooms, and afterwards
Murasaki had stayed talking to her. ‘What did you think of Nyosan’s
playing?’ Genji asked. ‘It seems to me that she has really improved
very much lately.’ ‘When she first came to live with us,’ Murasaki
answered, ‘and I used to hear her playing in the distance, I confess
I was rather surprised by her incompetence. But it is quite true that
she now plays very nicely. This no doubt is all due to your frequent
lessons.’ ‘Very likely,’ he replied. ‘The truth of the matter is,
hardly any one gets properly taught nowadays. Giving music lessons, if
one really does it properly, correcting every mistake and continually
guiding the pupil’s hands, is a troublesome, exhausting business.
Moreover it takes up an immense amount of time. But both Suzaku and
her brother the present Emperor evidently counted upon me to take
charge at any rate of her zithern lessons, and I had not the
heart to disappoint them. Well, I am glad you think that, if in other
ways she has got no great advantage through coming to live here, she
has at least made progress in her music. When you were at a learner’s
stage I was unfortunately far busier than at present, and was never
able to give you such long and thorough lessons, and lately one thing
after another seems to have prevented our practising together. I was
delighted, therefore, to hear from Yūgiri, the other day, the most
enthusiastic accounts of your progress.’
It seemed to him strange indeed that Murasaki, whom he was still apt to
regard as his ‘little pupil,’ should now in her turn be giving lessons
to his grandchildren. But such was the case, at any rate as regards
music. Nor for the matter of that was there any side of their education
of which she would not have been well qualified to take charge. For she
had always mastered fresh subjects with astounding ease and quickness,
showing a versatility which often disquieted him, in view of the
common opinion that such brilliance and rapidity of attainment often
presage an early death. His only consolation was that her knowledge,
however quickly garnered, was always solid and complete; whereas in
the cases of precocity that he heard quoted a merely superficial
variety of talents seemed to be the rule. She had recently celebrated
her thirty-seventh birthday, and after talking for a while of their
life together during all those years, Genji said: ‘You must be very
careful this year. You have reached a dangerous age[108] and ought to
have special prayers said on your behalf. I will help you so far as I
can; but probably there are all sorts of contingencies that it
would never occur to me to provide against. Just think things over, and
if there is any particular form of intercession that you would like
to be used, let me know, and I will arrange it for you. What a pity
that your uncle[109] is no longer alive. For the ordinary, every-day
prayers he would have done excellently....’ For a while he was silent;
but presently he said: ‘What a strange life mine has been! I suppose
few careers have ever appeared outwardly more brilliant; but I have
never been happy. Person after person that I cared for has in one way
or another been taken from me. It is long since I lost all zest for
life, and if I have been condemned to continue my existence, it is (I
sometimes think) only as a punishment for certain misdeeds[110] that
at all times still lie heavily on my mind. You alone have always been
here to console me, and I am glad to think that, apart from the time
when I was away at Akashi, I have never behaved in such a way as to
cause you a moment’s real unhappiness. You know quite well that I do
not care for grand society. Women with whom one has to behave according
to set forms and rules are in my opinion simply a nuisance. It is only
with people such as you, whom I have known all their lives, that I am
really happy. But you know all this quite well, and there is no use in
my repeating it. About Princess Nyosan—of course it was tiresome for
you that I was obliged to have her here, but since she came, I have
grown even fonder of you than before; a change you would have noticed
quickly enough, if it had been my affection towards some one else that
was on the increase! However, you are very observant, and I cannot
believe you are not perfectly well aware....’ ‘I cannot explain it,’
she said. ‘I know that to any outside person I must appear the happiest
of women—fortunate indeed far above my deserts. But inwardly I am
wretched.... Every day....’ She felt it would take a long time to
explain, and had not the courage. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said at
last, ‘I do not feel as though I should live much longer. You yourself
have told me that this is a dangerous year. Let me meet the danger by
doing what I have long been wanting to do. Then you will have less need
for anxiety about me.’ As usual, he declared that such a thing was out
of the question; the mere thought of separation was unendurable; their
daily meetings, the only semblance of happiness that remained to him.
‘Surely, you would rather that I did not want you to go?’ he asked,
seeing her disappointment. She was now weeping bitterly, and he knew
that the only way of putting a stop to this was to go on steadily for
some while talking of indifferent topics. He began telling her about
various people whom he had known years ago. It was natural that he
should mention, among other acquaintances of old days, Lady Rokujō,
the Empress Akikonomu’s mother. ‘Despite all that happened,’ he said,
‘I always think of her as the most brilliant creature that was ever at
Court. Never have I encountered a sensibility so vivid and profound,
and this, as you can imagine, made her at first a most fascinating
companion. But there can never have been any one with whom it was more
impossible to have relations of a permanent kind. It is natural that
people should sometimes feel out of temper or aggrieved, and equally
natural that, after a time, the feeling should wear off. But in her
mind the smallest sense of injury grew deeper from day to day, till it
had presently become coloured with emotions, the violence of which I
cannot describe. The circumstances were such that it was, as she well
knew, impossible for me to go to her whenever I wanted to, and equally
impossible for her to receive me. But her pride demanded that every
absence should be treated as a delinquency on my part, requiring
prolonged coldness on her side, and on mine an abject apology. In
the end, all dealings with her became impossible. Unfortunately the
secret of my relations with her was not well kept. Considering her
temperament, nothing could have been more disastrous. The idea that her
name was being bandied about the Court was torture to her, and though
all the difficulties had arisen through her inordinate jealousy, and
not through any fault of mine, I was extremely sorry for her, and in
the end felt quite as wretched as though I had in fact been to blame.
That is why I have taken so much trouble over Akikonomu’s career,
incurring thereby, as I well know, a great deal of unpopularity. But
what does it matter if I am accused of favouritism and I know not what,
so long as I feel that, in the grave, her mother can no longer doubt my
good will? But I own that far too often in my life I have yielded to
the impulse of the moment—have sought pleasures of which I afterwards
bitterly repented.’ He went on to discuss the characters of various
other women whom he had known, and said after a while: ‘I used to think
that the Lady of Akashi, always conscious of her humble origins, was
content with very little; and indeed the difficulty seemed to consist
in persuading her to put herself forward at all. But I found out one
cannot judge her by what appears on the surface. Modest, docile,
self-effacing though she may seem to be, somewhere in the hidden depths
of her nature there is more than a suspicion of self-will and pride.’
‘Most of the people about whom you have talked,’ answered Murasaki,
now calm and composed, ‘I never saw, and therefore do not know whether
you are right about them or no. But with the Lady of Akashi I am now
fairly well acquainted, and I confess that her extreme sensitiveness
and pride, so far from being hidden away in some secret corner of her
being, have always seemed to me extremely conspicuous. Indeed,
when with her I feel myself to be, in comparison, singularly lacking
in reserve and sensibility. But though her shyness has often baffled
me, I have persevered in the knowledge that the child understands me,
and would put things right.’ Here was a wonderful change! Genji could
remember the time when it was impossible for him so much as to mention
the Lady of Akashi’s name; and here was Murasaki singing her praises.
He knew that this had come about through her affection for the little
Princess, and he felt thankful for the existence of the child. ‘I
do not think that you have any reason to feel over-sensitive or too
easygoing in whatever company you may find yourself,’ he replied. ‘My
experience has at least had the effect of teaching me how rare it is
to find any one who so successfully steers the middle course. You are
indeed a prodigy.... But I must go to Nyosan and congratulate her on
the progress she has made with her music.’
To Nyosan it never occurred that any other woman could be
inconvenienced by her presence in the house. She flung herself with
childish absorption into the distractions of the moment. Just now it
was her zithern that occupied her thoughts, and nothing else seemed of
any importance. ‘You have earned a holiday,’ Genji said. ‘I hope your
teacher will always be as pleased with you as he is to-day. We have
had some arduous times together, haven’t we, and it is a comfort that
something has come of it all at last. For the first time I really feel
quite confident about you;’ and so saying he pushed the zithern from
him and fell fast asleep.
On the nights when Genji was away, Murasaki used to make her women
read to her. She thus became acquainted with many of the old-fashioned
romances, and she noticed that the heroes of these stories, however
light-minded, faithless or even vicious they might be, were
invariably represented as in the end settling down to one steady and
undivided attachment. If this were true to life, then Genji was, as he
himself so often said, very differently constituted indeed from the
generality of mankind. Never, she was convinced, never as long as he
lived would his affections cease to wander in whatever direction his
insatiable curiosity dictated. Say what he might, wish what he might,
the future would be just what the past had been. With such thoughts
going round and round in her head she fell asleep very late one night,
only to wake a few hours later, long before it was light, with a
violent pain in her chest. Her people did what they could for her, but
with little effect. They were anxious to summon Genji; but she would
not allow it, saying she did not wish him to be disturbed. She bore her
pain as best she could till daylight came. She was now in a high fever
and very restless. Again her maids begged her to let them summon His
Highness. But Genji was still in the other part of the house, and she
would not let them go to him. Presently, however, there came a note
from the Crown Princess, and in the answer that she dictated Murasaki
mentioned that she was unwell. The Princess felt alarmed, and guessing
that Genji might not have heard, she sent a note to him, repeating the
little that Murasaki had told her. In a moment he was at her bedside in
a state of the utmost concern. ‘Are you better?’ he asked; but laying
his hand upon her burning forehead he knew that she was not. At once
he remembered their conversation of the other day. What if this were
the very danger against which he had warned her? He was terrified.
Presently, seeing that he would not leave her, his people brought him
his breakfast on a tray; but he did not touch it, and all day long
he sat motionless by the bedside, gazing at her as though stupefied
with grief. Thus many days passed. She was evidently in great
pain, not a morsel of food would she eat, nor did she once raise her
head from the pillows. Meanwhile his messengers set out at top speed
in all directions, arranging for prayers on her behalf to be said in
every important temple throughout the land, and priests were sent for
to work their spells at the bedside. She was now in great general
distress and discomfort. The pain in her chest was no longer continual,
but at each fresh attack was so severe that she hardly knew how to
bear it. Every known remedy was tried, but nothing brought her any
relief. It was apparent that she was very ill indeed, but Genji tried
to find encouragement in the fact that there were now considerable
intervals between these severe attacks. This showed, he thought, some
natural resistance to the disease; perhaps in time the intervals would
gradually become long enough for health to reassert itself. But he was
still in the greatest agitation and anxiety. He ought at this very
time to have been supervising the arrangements for the celebration of
Suzaku’s fiftieth birthday. But he was utterly unable to give his mind
to any outside subject, and left the business in other hands. Suzaku in
his monastery heard the news of Murasaki’s illness, and constantly sent
messages of enquiry.
Week after week passed without any improvement. The only expedient
which now remained untried was a change of scene, and, as this was
recommended, Genji, with extreme reluctance, moved her into his old
palace, the Nijō-in.
Often she was hardly conscious of what went on around her; but once
during a moment of comparative calm and lucidity she reproached Genji
for not having allowed her to seek the consolations of religion while
there was still time. But if it was terrible to see her thus carried
from him by a stroke of fate, by this cruel sickness against which
she struggled in vain, how much worse would it have been to see
her deliberately proclaim as worthless the love he bore her, to stand
by while she cast away her beauty, her talents, her charm, and in
preference to living with him chose as a more tolerable lot the gloom
and squalor of a convent? ‘Long, long before you ever thought of it,’
he said, ‘I earnestly desired to take my vows, and if I did not do so,
it was wholly for your sake. Think what I should have felt if, after
all, you had deserted me first....’
She was now so weak that small hope of her recovery could be
entertained. Again and again it seemed as though the end were come,
and Genji lived in so continual an agony of suspense that during this
whole time he never once went near Nyosan’s rooms. There were no more
music lessons, and week after week her lute and zitherns lay packed
away in their wrappers. Many of the servants belonging to the New
Palace had followed Murasaki to the Nijō-in, so that, what with her own
rooms empty and so little stir of any kind going on, the place wore
a strangely crepuscular air, and it seemed as though the whole life
of this once so brilliant and joyous house had depended on Murasaki’s
presence, and on that alone.
One day Genji brought the Akashi Princess[111] to see her. ‘Come
quickly!’ she called to them. ‘Strange visions haunt me, and I am
afraid to be alone.’ The Princess had brought her little boy, Prince
Niou, with her, and seeing him Murasaki burst into tears. ‘I longed
to watch him growing up,’ she sobbed. ‘Now he will not even remember
me.’ ‘No, no,’ Genji interrupted her, ‘we must not let you talk like
that. You are going to get well. Everything depends on what we think.
If our thoughts are large and courageous, all kinds of good things
will come our way; but if they are small and timid, then ill-luck will
always attend us. And it is just so with health. Even people of
the highest birth, surrounded by every comfort, often worry themselves
into the grave by fretting over every trifle, and never learning
to take life as it comes. But you have always been so sensible and
even-tempered. That is sure to stand you in good stead....’ And in his
prayers to Buddha and to the Gods of our land he mentioned her great
beauty of character, begging them to spare one who in her dealings with
others had always shown such gentleness and forbearance. The priests
and miracle-workers, who were on duty night and day, being told that
her condition had reached a very critical phase, now redoubled their
efforts, and for five or six days she seemed to be a little better.
After that she had another bad attack; but things had gone on thus for
so long that it seemed quite probable she would again rally. Of her
final recovery Genji no longer had any expectation. Those in attendance
upon her could discover no sign of any actual possession,[112] nor
was it clear where the principal seat of her malady lay. But she was
growing steadily weaker, and knowing that at any moment the end might
come, Genji watched by her bedside hour after hour in an agony of
continual suspense.
Among those whom recent changes in the government had tended to bring
to the fore was Kashiwagi. He had for long past been one of the new
Emperor’s most intimate friends, and it was evident that, should
he choose to take advantage of his position, a great future was in
store for him. Realizing at last the hopelessness of his designs upon
Nyosan, he had been prevailed upon to take as a concubine her elder
sister, Lady Ochiba, who being the child of a waiting-woman and thus
at a great disadvantage in the world, was glad enough to accept the
position now offered to her by a very half-hearted lover. She was quite
good-looking. Indeed, many would have regarded her as extremely
attractive. But Kashiwagi was under no delusion that this alliance
would in any way console him for his failure with the younger sister.
His own old nurse was a sister of Nyosan’s nurse (the mother of Kojijū,
whose assistance had proved so fruitless before). It was through the
relationship of these two old ladies that Kashiwagi had first heard
of Nyosan. Indeed, while the Princess was still a child, his old
nurse had whenever he visited her regaled him with continual stories
of the little girl’s clever sayings and pretty ways, and of Suzaku’s
extraordinary attachment to her; and it was these tales, repeated from
her nurse to his, that had first aroused his curiosity. It was now long
since Kashiwagi had attempted to hold any communication with her; but
seeing the New Palace almost deserted (for since Murasaki’s illness
Genji was always at the Nijō-in and most of the servants had followed
him), Kashiwagi felt that the time for a further attempt had come, and
sending for Kojijū he begged her to assist him. ‘I feel no compunction
in the matter,’ he said, ‘for Genji is neglecting her scandalously.
Indeed, he ought never to have accepted such a responsibility, for his
affections were already engaged in many other quarters, and it was
clear from the beginning that she would be left entirely to her own
devices. Months pass without his ever going near her, and she leads
(I gather) the dullest life imaginable. Suzaku has heard something
of this, and is now extremely sorry that he did not give her to some
commoner who would have appreciated the honour and devoted himself to
making her happy. I am afraid he thinks that in providing for Ochiba
he has found just such a steady-going, conscientious husband in me!
I wish it were so; but though they are sisters and in some ways very
much alike, Ochiba is Ochiba and Nyosan is Nyosan. That is all there
is to be said about it....’ Kojijū was horrified. ‘Come now!’ she
said. ‘That beats all. You have just promised to devote your life to
one sister, and now you tell me that the only person in the world you
care for is the other.’ ‘I know it seems very odd,’ said Kashiwagi,
smiling. ‘But I believe both Suzaku and his present Majesty would
really have liked to give me Nyosan. And even now, since it is clear
that Genji does not take any interest in her, I gather they are by no
means displeased that I should feel as I do. They have her happiness to
consider, and at present she is leading a miserable existence.... Come!
I think you might oblige me by having one more try.’ ‘You are asking
a great deal more than you suppose,’ said Kojijū heatedly. ‘To begin
with, she knows that you have just married some one else. And then, do
you really think you have reached such a position in the world that
you can afford to make an enemy of Prince Genji? I may be mistaken,
but it does not seem so very long....’ She was beginning to remind him
how recent was his present promotion, but so indignant was she at his
audacity that the words tripped over one another and she suddenly broke
off. ‘That will do,’ he said. ‘Let us stick to the point. All I ask is
that one day when you and she are alone together you should mention me.
This surely cannot be very difficult now that so little is going on at
the New Palace. I only want her to know that I have not forgotten her.
I am not asking you to arrange a meeting, or indeed to say anything
that could possibly bring a blush to the most modest cheek.’ ‘You are
asking me to do precisely what is most likely to lead you both into
trouble. Besides which, how can I suddenly begin talking about you?
And for the matter of that, how am I to get at her when she is alone?
It is hardly ever possible....’ So she fenced, trying her best to put
him off. ‘You are simply inventing difficulties,’ he said impatiently
at last. ‘And why all this fuss? Is it so strange a thing for a
lady to be admired? Queens, I seem to remember, and Empresses too have
sometimes been known to have their lovers. And who is Nyosan that you
should think it sacrilege for any one to dream of her? Certainly the
way she is treated at present does not suggest that Genji considers
her to be of any great importance. You must learn to be less rigid
in your ideas....’ ‘If you think that Nyosan feels herself to be
imperfectly appreciated and is on the look-out for some one to rescue
her from her humiliations, you are very much mistaken. It was clearly
understood from the beginning that this was not to be an ordinary
marriage. She was extremely young, and came to the New Palace that,
after her father’s retirement from the City, she might have a fixed
home and gain a little experience of polite life. All your talk of her
being neglected or maltreated is beside the point.’ She was beginning
to lose her temper; but by adroit flattery he managed to prevent her
flinging out of the room, and at last she said: ‘If I ever do find
myself alone with my Lady, I will speak of this. But even when Genji is
away at the Nijō-in there are always a lot of people gathered round her
curtains-of-state, and even by her chair there is generally some one in
attendance. So don’t ask me to make any promises.’
Day after day he badgered her, and at last, about the middle of the
fourth month, there came from her a hurried note bidding him at
once repair to the New Palace. He set out heavily disguised. His
expectations were of an agreeable but by no means exorbitant kind.
He did not for a moment suppose that she would admit him within her
curtained dais. But she would, he hoped, be willing to converse with
him, and if he were fortunate he might catch a glimpse of her sleeve,
her fan, the train of her dress.
The Purification of the new Kamo Vestal was to take place next
day. Twelve of the ladies who were to attend her were in service at the
New Palace and were now in their own rooms busily engaged in trimming
and sewing. The other gentlewomen of the household were to be present
at to-morrow’s show and were busy with their preparations, so that in
Nyosan’s part of the house there were very few people about; and even
her confidential maid Azechi was absent, for she had received a sudden
summons from a certain young captain (a member of the Minamoto clan,
who had been paying her attentions for some time) and Nyosan had given
her a holiday. Indeed, only Kojijū was in attendance, and she now led
him noiselessly to a seat close by the side of her mistress’s dais.
Well, he thought, even should matters go no further, this was already a
great deal more than he had expected when he set out.
Nyosan was asleep, and presently waking to find a man’s form outlined
against the curtains of her dais she naturally thought that it was
Genji. But it was certainly not at all like Genji to sit nervously
at the end of his chair in an attitude of constrained obeisance. For
a moment she thought herself haunted by a ghost and hid her face in
her hands; but finding courage to look up once more she saw clearly
enough that the visitor, though not Genji, was a person quite as
real. Seeing that she was now awake, Kashiwagi began explaining his
presence. Protestations, entreaties, apologies.... Who was he, and what
did it all mean? More terrified now than when she had thought him a
ghost, Nyosan called for help. But no one came, for there was no one
to hear her call. She was now trembling from head to foot and drops
of perspiration stood out on her brow. In this exhibition of childish
panic there was something that fascinated him; but he was at the same
time ashamed of having terrified her, and again began rather confusedly
apologizing for his intrusion: ‘My rank does not, I know, entitle
me to address you as an equal. But I had hoped all the same you would
not consider me quite outside the pale of possible acquaintance. This
claim at least I have upon your interest: that for years past you have
occupied my thoughts to the exclusion of all else, as your father could
bear witness. For utterly unable to lock up these feelings in my own
breast (where indeed they were already grown rank with keeping) I long
ago made confession of them, and found him by no means discouraging.
But I was soon disillusioned. For weighed in the balance against one
who had never given a moment’s thought to you I, who loved you so
dearly, was found wanting merely for lack of governmental dignities and
royal pedigree. So soon as your lot was cast I determined to banish
all thought of you for ever from my heart. But love had burnt down too
deep into the core. Months, years passed, and still I thought of you,
longed for you, wept for you; until, unable for an instant longer to
support my misery, I rushed thus uncivilly into your presence, showing,
as I fully perceive, a lack of consideration for your feelings that
makes me blush for shame. But now that I am here, let me make amends
by assuring you that you shall at least have no cause to repent of my
having been admitted.’ While he spoke she kept on asking herself who
he was, and it was only gradually that it dawned upon her he could not
very well be any one but Kashiwagi. This realization made her feel more
than ever scared, and she did not manage to bring out a word in reply.
‘You know so little of me,’ he went on, ‘that I am not surprised you
should be somewhat nervous. But after all, such visits as this of mine
to-night are of fairly frequent occurrence! If you persist in treating
it as an affront, my misery will drive me to.... But no! Have pity on
me, say one kind word, and I will leave you.’ Her complete lack of
self-importance had, however, somewhat upset his calculations.
He had expected to find her haughty, stiff, unapproachable—in a word,
all that women of such rank are generally supposed to be. Consequently
it had never occurred to him that on this first visit he would by
any conceivable chance get beyond the stage of a little stiff and
unadventurous conversation. But to his surprise she was not grand,
not proud, not contemptuous. She was only a singularly handsome girl,
looking up at him with a shy, questioning yet almost trustful air.
His good resolutions suddenly broke down. Soon the world and its
inhabitants seemed nothing to him, nor would he have stretched out a
hand to save them from instant destruction.
At last, lying by her side, he did not exactly fall asleep, or
certainly had no mind to do so; but must indeed have dozed a little.
For suddenly there appeared before him the cat which he had once
contrived to steal from her. It advanced towards him purring loudly,
and wondering in his dream how it had got there, he supposed that he
must have brought it with him. What had made him do that?... So he was
asking himself in his dream, when he woke with a start. There was of
course no cat anywhere to be seen, and he wondered why he should have
had so curious a dream.
The Princess felt that something terrible had befallen her; and yet, so
sudden had it all been, she could scarcely believe that anything had
happened at all. ‘This was in our destinies,’ he whispered. ‘Surely
you too will admit that it could not but come,’ and he began to tell
her about the evening of the football match, and how he had seen her
through the gap in her ill-fastened curtains, thanks partly to the
plunging and tugging of the runaway cat.
So he _had_ seen her—everyone had seen her on that unfortunate night!
But what happened then was a small disgrace indeed compared with what
had followed as the direct consequence of that unguarded moment.
How should she ever face Genji again? So she asked herself, and burst
into agonized tears—the tears of a child that is at the same time sorry
and afraid. Tenderly, almost respectfully he helped her to wipe those
tears away. It was growing light, and Kashiwagi, whose one thought
for months past had been how to get into her rooms, was now face to
face with the much more difficult problem of how to escape from them.
However, he was determined not to go till he had obtained from her
some sign that she did not altogether detest him. ‘All this time you
have hardly spoken a word,’ he said. ‘Do say something—no matter how
unkind—that I may not go away from you for ever without even knowing
the sound of your voice. For, having shown so plainly that I am
distasteful to you, you need not fear that I shall ever trouble you
again.’
In vain he entreated her. She was far too scared and penitent to utter
a single syllable. ‘You need not think that by prolonging your silence
you will reduce me to any greater pitch of misery,’ he said at last.
‘More downcast than I am at this minute no human being could ever be.’
Still she remained mute, and maddened by her obstinacy, he burst out:
‘I see it is no use. Well, that decides matters for me. This is my
last night on earth. It was the thought of you that alone gave life
any value in my eyes, and now that I must think of you no more....
But stay, are you so heartless that, knowing I have scarce an hour to
live, you grudge me the gift of one kind word to take with me as my
prize to the grave?’ So saying he picked her up in his arms and carried
her back to the outer room. The door by which he had entered last
night was still open. Why did he not leave her? She watched him with
consternation. Surely he did not intend to wait till some fresh harm
was done? The house was still quite dark. But midnight must by now
be long past; and thinking that out of doors there might already be a
little light, he gently raised the shutter, and turning round caught
(as he had hoped to) a clearer view of her form and face.
‘I cannot think, I cannot move,’ he cried, looking at her desperately.
‘If you wish me to recover my senses, to be calm, to leave you, let
me hear you say one word. Speak, though it be only in pity....’ Never
had she seen any one behave like this; what could it matter to him
whether she spoke or not? At this point, however, she did try to say
something; but so violently was she trembling that the words turned
into meaningless jangle of sound. The room was growing lighter every
moment. ‘Listen!’ he said excitedly, ‘I had a wonderful dream last
night. I know what it means and wanted to tell you, but how could I,
when I found you hated me so? Well, you shall not hear it. But time
will show me whether I read it right or no.’ He stumbled towards the
door.
It was early summer, but never had autumn sky looked to him colder and
sadder than that which now met his eyes. ‘So dim to me the dawning
world, I know not whither I go; nor whence I came, save that the place
was dank with showers of dew.’ Such was his parting poem, and as he
spoke it he held up the sleeve with which he had wiped her tears. Now
that he was really going she plucked up heart a little, and managed in
a faint voice to murmur the reply: ‘Would that with the shadows of this
dawn my grief might vanish, and of last night no token but a dream be
left behind.’ Her soft, half-childish voice was echoing in his ears as
he left the room, and for the first time in his life he knew that it
was no mere phrase when the poet said: ‘Though the body move, the soul
may stay behind.’
Instead of going home he went to his father’s house, slipping in
quietly without being seen. He lay down and tried to sleep, but
did not succeed. That dream.... It was, as a matter of fact, very
unlikely that it could signify what it is generally supposed to,[113]
and looking back in detail upon all that had happened he felt that
there was no need to worry. He even, with a certain pleasure, recalled
the details of his dream. But whether his dreaming of a cat really
signified anything or no, he had committed what the world would
consider a terrible crime. For many days afterwards he was haunted by a
shame and fear that made it impossible for him to set foot outside his
own door. These feelings indeed were gradually assuming an intensity
quite out of proportion (as Kashiwagi kept telling himself) to the
magnitude of his offence. No doubt he had behaved indiscreetly, and
should the meeting have certain consequences the girl might conceivably
find herself in an embarrassing position. But that was only a remote
chance, and in all probability no harm of any kind had been done. Why
was it that such a weight of shame and contrition had settled upon him?
If he had seduced the Empress herself and his crime were already known,
he could not have been in a greater panic—a state of mind all the
more unreasonable since he was convinced that no punishment, not even
death itself, could be more terrible than the torture that he was now
enduring.
Long before Nyosan could possibly have shown any outward sign such as
might betray her, he began to fancy that Genji was looking at him with
a peculiar expression, and those supposedly accusing eyes filled him
with terror and shame.
There is in many high-born women an abundance of natural appetite that
the good manners instilled into them from childhood render invisible
to the common eye. But upon the mildest provocation this tendency will
manifest itself in the most surprising ways. With Nyosan, however,
this was not the case. Her innocence was every bit as great as it
seemed. The experiences of that fatal night had left in her mind no
impression but that of the most abject terror. She could not convince
herself that all was safely over, that no one had betrayed them, and
hardly daring to appear even among her own people she spent week after
week in the darkness of the back room. She felt that something had
gone wrong with her, and at last, unaided by any outside person, she
realized what was amiss.
Genji heard that she was indisposed and hurried round in alarm to the
New Palace. Had a fresh burden now been added to the already unbearable
load of his anxiety? He was glad to find her, to all appearances,
uncommonly well. All he noticed was that she looked very much ashamed
of herself and persistently refused to meet his gaze. No doubt she
was cross with him for having left her so long to her own devices,
and in order that she might better understand how he had come thus to
neglect her, he began describing Murasaki’s illness. ‘I do not think
she can last much longer now,’ he said after a while, ‘and you may be
certain that you will never find yourself neglected like this again.
But Murasaki has been with me since she was a child, she has become
an inseparable part of my life, and you will guess, I am sure, that
during these last weeks I have been in no condition to think or speak
of anything else. I am sure you are not so unreasonable as to be cross
with me....’ He was gone again. Evidently her people had not told him
the nature of her malady. But in the long run he would have to know,
and as soon as she was alone Nyosan burst into a flood of tears.
So seldom did Genji now visit the New Palace that he had much to do
there and did not intend to return immediately. He was wondering
uneasily what condition affairs would be in when he got back to the
Nijō-in. Suddenly a messenger arrived announcing that Murasaki appeared
to be sinking fast. In a moment all else was forgotten, and with
darkness closing about his heart he rushed round to his old palace.
It seemed to take an interminable time to get there. At last, coming
into view of the house, he saw that something terrible must indeed have
happened, for the whole space between the main building and the highway
was filled with a surging throng of people, while from within came a
continual sound of weeping.
Not looking to right or left, he tore towards her apartments, where
he was met by one of her maids. ‘All day she had seemed much better,’
said the lady. ‘This faintness came upon her quite suddenly.’ Within,
all was weeping and confusion. Many of those that had served her
longest, frantic with grief, were calling upon death not to leave
them behind; while such of the priests and miracle-workers whose duty
for the day was over were noisily dismantling their altars and making
ready to depart. There was nothing unusual in this; their places would
soon be taken by new-comers and the long services of intercession
would continue. But to Genji there seemed on this particular day to
be an air of finality in the methodical clatter of their departure.
He rushed towards them, sharply bidding them make their exit more
quietly. Murasaki was now unconscious, but he was convinced that this
was merely a trance, due to ‘possession’ by some evil influence, and
so far from allowing the priests to slacken their efforts, he now sent
for a number of celebrated miracle-workers from all parts of the land,
and bade them preside over a grand service of exorcism. The form of
their prayer was that, even though the sick woman’s days were numbered,
she might in accordance with the Promise of the Immovable One,[114]
be granted a half-year of reprieve. The priests, intent upon their
ritual, bent so close over the burnt offering that it seemed as though
the smoke was rising not from the altar but from their very heads. The
most Genji now hoped for was that she might for a brief spell recover
consciousness before she died. The thought that she would perhaps never
know him again, that he would never be able to ask her forgiveness for
all that he had done amiss, threw him into such a state of agitation
and despair as those about him had seldom witnessed, and they felt it
was impossible he should survive her loss. Perhaps the sight of so
deep a sorrow touched even Buddha’s heart; be that as it may, signs
of a definite ‘possession’—the first that had been visible for many
months—now became manifest in the patient, and the exorcists were soon
able to transfer this possessing spirit to the body of a small boy
whom they had brought with them to act as medium. While, through this
boy’s mouth, the spirit railed against the priests who had forced it
to do their bidding, Murasaki gradually regained consciousness, and it
was with mingled feelings of joy and horror that he watched on the one
hand her slow recovery, and on the other the ravings and contortions
of the boy. At last, subdued to reason by the spells and passes of
the exorcists, the spirit still speaking through the boy’s mouth said
quietly: ‘Let every one save Prince Genji leave the room. What I must
now say, no one else but he must hear. You have plagued me this long
time past with your spells and incantations. I do not love you for it,
of that you may be sure. And I would here and now take my vengeance
on you all; it is not that I lack the power ... rather, I have chosen
of my own free will to postpone the task; for strange though you may
think it, we ghosts love as we loved on earth; and when I saw Prince
Genji frantic with grief, shattered by long days of watching and
apprehension—when I saw that, did I not leave my work a while, he too
would fall beneath my blow—then I was sorry for him; I, that have
become a foul and fiendish thing, pitied him as tenderly as any living
creature can pity. That is why I have shown myself to you. I did not
mean that you should ever know....’
The hair stood upright on the boy-medium’s head, while at the same time
huge tears trickled down his cheeks. Where had he seen before this
strange blending of rage and misery? Yes. Such had been the face of
the apparition that had appeared at Aoi’s bedside. He was dumbfounded.
Nothing then, not death itself, could alter the hideous trend of evil
that the passionate agony of those old days had set upon its course.
All else was fading, slipping away. But this terrible thing had never
changed.
He took the medium by the hand, and leading him to a safe distance from
Murasaki’s bed, he said: ‘Give me some proof.... Speak of something
that I shall remember, but no one else could possibly know about. Then
I shall believe that you are she. But not till then; for fox-spirit
and the like often cause great harm by passing themselves off as the
spirits of our dead friends, and I must be on my guard.’ While Genji
spoke thus, the medium was shaken by violent sobbing. At last a voice
sounded amid the sobs, and though distorted by anguish, it was, past
all denying, the proud passionate voice of Rokujō: ‘You know me well
enough; for changed though I may be, I still remember what it means
when you put on that stupid, innocent air. You at least are what you
always were—heartless, dishonest....’ Again the voice was choked
by sobs. He was filled with pity, but, at the same time, a kind of
repulsion, and made no attempt to reply. Presently the medium spoke
again: ‘Do not think that, even in my most distant wanderings,
banished amid the realms of outer space, I have ever for a moment been
ignorant of what was passing here on earth. All that in penitence you
have done for my daughter, the Empress’s sake, is known to me, and I
thank you for it. And yet—it is strange—nothing now seems the same to
me. She is mine, I have not forgotten her. But do not think that I love
her as a living woman loves her child. Nothing, not one thought nor
feeling, have I brought with me unaltered into the world of death, save
this insensate passion, that even on earth made my own nature loathsome
and despicable to me. Rage, jealousy, hatred—they alone cling to my
soul and drag it back each moment closer to the earth.
‘And do you know what hurt me more than all your cruelty to me when
I was alive? It was to hear you entertaining this friend of yours
with stories of my “bad temper,” my “grievances,” my “inordinate
jealousy.”[115] I should have thought that the dead at least might be
spared such insults and lies! A thousand times I have asked myself how
you of all men, you with your fine breeding, could speak of me thus to
another woman. Bad as I was before, this fresh insult has worked in
me a ghastly change. Never before have I done harm to those on earth,
but now—Listen! If you think I have any desire to prey upon this woman
on the bed, you are wrong. I want to leave her, to leave you all;
but if you wish to be rid of me, put an end to all these spells and
incantations, that can but keep me at a little distance, and use these
mighty miracle-workers and priests, whom you have set like a hedge
about you, to pray for my soul’s release, for the cancelling of all
my sins. Do not think that because for the moment I could stand your
dronings and buzzings no longer—your prayers and scripture-readings
that beset me like tongues of flame—do not think that I am
conquered. Back I shall come and back again, till in your liturgies I
hear some word of comfort for my own soul. Say masses for me, read them
night and day. Tell my daughter the Empress to pray for me with all
her heart; and bid her never for one instant, though she may fall from
favour and another be set in her place, never so much as in a dream to
let one envious or jealous thought creep into her heart. She has guilt
enough on her conscience, having spent many months at Ise,[116] where
the name of the Blessed One may not be spoken.’
The medium continued to rave; but this conversation with a ghost
was too eerie to be prolonged. Already those who had been asked to
retire from the room must be asking themselves what was happening. He
readmitted them, had the boy-medium placed in a sealed room,[117] and
Murasaki carried secretly to a different part of the house.
Somehow or other a rumour got started that Murasaki was dead, and
Genji had the painful experience of receiving innumerable letters
of condolence. It was the day of the Kamo festival, and among the
courtiers returning from the Shrine many jokes were made on the topic
of Murasaki’s sudden fall and eclipse. Some one said that since she had
lost her power to charm the sunlight[118] it was not to be wondered
at that the rain should have washed her away. And another: ‘Prodigies
of that kind never last long, and perhaps it is as well for them that
they do not. Otherwise they might tend to fare like the cherry-blossom
in the proverb.[119] Did they not so quickly retire from the scene
they would end by getting all the fun into their own hands and
spoiling things for every one else. It is nice to think of that poor
little Princess Nyosan coming into her own again. I am sure it was high
time....’
Kashiwagi had stayed at home on the previous day, but had found the
time hang so heavily on his hands that to-day he set out for the
Festival, taking his brothers with him in the back of the carriage. On
the way home they heard the rumour that was being bandied from coach
to coach. The brothers were by no means convinced of its truth, and
to offer premature condolences would be very embarrassing. But they
decided that there could be no harm in paying an ordinary visit, as
though in ignorance of what was being said. Their first impression upon
arriving at the New Palace was that the end had indeed come. On every
side rose the sound of weeping and wailing. No sooner had they entered
than Murasaki’s father Prince Hyōbukyō rushed past them into the house,
obviously in a state of frenzied agitation.
Presently Yūgiri came out, wiping the tears from his eyes, and
Kashiwagi said to him: ‘Tell us quickly what has happened. We heard
very bad news on the road, but were loth to believe it, and have come,
as we intended to do in any case, merely to enquire.... We hoped
for some improvement. This has been going on for so long....’ ‘She
has indeed been in a very serious condition for some weeks past,’
said Yūgiri. ‘Finally, early this morning, she lost consciousness
altogether. However, at this point the presence of a “possession”
became obvious, and when this had been dealt with, she came to, and is
now, I hear, considered not to be in any immediate danger. Of course,
this is a great relief to us all. But I am afraid there is not really
much hope....’ It was obvious that he was deeply moved. He must have
been crying a great deal for his eyes were quite swollen. ‘Why
should he mind so much?’ Kashiwagi asked himself, remembering that
Yūgiri had been brought up by his mother’s family, and had, ostensibly
at any rate, always been kept at a distance from his stepmother. And at
once, suspecting others (as we always do) of harbouring the same guilty
secrets as ourselves, he began imagining that Yūgiri not Genji had been
the partner of Murasaki’s great romance.
A message now came from Genji asking the visitors to excuse him from
appearing in person. ‘You will forgive me, I know,’ he said, ‘when I
tell you that we have all been taking part in what had every appearance
of being an actual death-scene. Our gentlewomen have not yet had time
to recover their composure, and I myself am still, I confess, far too
agitated to receive you properly. I hope you will do me the honour of
repeating your visit at some time when I am better able to appreciate
it.’ The mere mention of Genji’s name filled Kashiwagi with shame and
embarrassment; he for his part was glad it was upon so distracted
an occasion that he had come to the house. As for repeating the
experiment, the others might come if they chose, but he most assuredly
would not be with them.
Meanwhile Murasaki remained conscious; but the services of intercession
were continued, and to them Genji added secret masses for the Release
of Rokujō’s soul. And he had reason enough of every kind to hope
ardently that these would be successful. Even during her lifetime he
had experienced in fashion sinister enough the evil potency of her
rage; and now that she was in another world, changed into a thing
devoid of all human pity or compunction, it was hideous to think that
her malice towards him was still unappeased. Apparently all that he
had done for Akikonomu was useless! But what was the good of trying
to please women? If they were not fundamentally evil, they would
not have been born as women at all.[120] Perhaps he ought not to have
spoken of her to Murasaki. But he remembered the occasion perfectly
well; it was the night before Murasaki’s illness began, and really he
had not said anything very bad.... It was difficult enough to satisfy
the living; but existence was intolerable if even one’s most intimate
conversations might at any moment let loose the vindictive fury of the
dead.
Murasaki still longed to receive the tonsure, and thinking that the
ceremony might help her to rally a little, Genji at last consented. Her
reception into the Order was more a semblance than a reality, for no
attempt was made to do more than cut away a lock or two from the crown
of her head, and only five of the Ten Vows were administered. During
the whole ceremony Genji, regardless of convention, sat by her side,
and with tears in his eyes helped her to repeat her responses.
The fifth month was now closing, and the weather was exceedingly hot.
She began again to have frequent fainting-fits, and grew much weaker.
But though her mind often wandered, she was perfectly well aware of the
tense anxiety with which Genji watched her progress. She had herself
no desire or hope of recovery, and if she now occasionally forced
herself into a sitting posture or managed to swallow a little broth,
it was that Genji might feel her to be still a living creature, rather
than (as she knew herself to be) a strangely lingering ghost. At the
beginning of the sixth month she astonished and delighted him by even
looking about her a little. But he was still in great alarm, and did
not once succeed in getting across to the New Palace.
Nyosan’s condition was now quite definitely established; but she was
not by any means in bad health. Indeed, save for the fact that her
complexion was rather sallow and her appetite not so good as usual, she
had not much to complain of. Kashiwagi had not been able to restrain
himself from several times repeating his visit, but the girl had made
it abundantly plain that she would much rather he left her in peace.
The truth was that Kashiwagi had made no such impression upon her as
could outweigh her fear of getting into trouble with Genji. True, her
lover was one of the handsomest and most talented figures at Court, and
many a girl’s head would have been completely turned by his advances;
but to Nyosan, used as she was to Genji’s far more striking looks and
personality, this young man seemed almost insipid in character, no more
than passable in appearance, and (Palace Counsellor though he was) none
the more impressive on that account to one whose upbringing had been
such as hers.
Her old nurse and gentlewoman had, of course, long ago discovered the
condition she was in. ‘Do you remember exactly when it was that His
Highness was last here?’ one of them said. ‘It seems to me as though it
were a very long time ago.’ They felt rather uneasy about the matter,
but thought it their duty to inform Genji. He at once came round to the
New Palace.
It was as a matter of fact (Genji remembered this quite clearly) more
than a year.... Surely there must be some mistake? He said nothing to
her about the reason of his visit. She did, he thought, perhaps look a
trifle out of sorts, and he treated her with every mark of tenderness
and concern. Really, she was a charming girl. Now that, after being
so many times obliged to postpone his visit, he had at last managed
to get here, he ought to stay for a night or two. And so he did;
but he was all the while in such a state of anxiety about Murasaki
that he could think of nothing else, and spent most of the time in
writing messages to her. ‘That’s good!’ said one of Nyosan’s
ladies indignantly. ‘He saves up all his letter-writing till he comes
here. We appreciate the compliment, I am sure!’ Kojijū for her part
only wished that Kashiwagi took a like view of Genji’s visit. No sooner
did the young man hear of it than he fell into a state of violent
agitation and began pouring in upon Nyosan a stream of letters, couched
in the most hectic terms of jealousy and desperation—all of which it
fell to Kojijū’s lot to deliver.
‘Don’t show me these tiresome things,’ said Nyosan, when Kojijū, seeing
Genji go to fetch something from Murasaki’s old rooms, hastily produced
one of these frenzied epistles. ‘I do wish you would just read what he
says here in the margin,’ Kojijū pleaded. ‘I am sure you would feel
sorry for him....’ So saying, she unfolded the letter and had just
placed it in Nyosan’s hands, when there was a noise of footsteps. A
sudden panic descending upon her, Kojijū glided from the room. There
was no time to destroy the letter or lock it up in a safe place. Her
heart beating wildly, Nyosan stuffed it under the mattress of the couch
upon which she lay.
Next morning he rose early, wanting to go back to the Nijō-in
before the sun became unpleasantly strong. ‘Where is that fan I had
yesterday?’ he asked his servant. ‘This one is no good at all. I think
I must have left it where I was sitting with the Princess yesterday
evening. I had better go and look.’ Having hunted high and low, he went
towards the couch where Nyosan had lain, and suddenly noticed that a
piece of light blue paper was sticking out from under her mattress,
which was pushed slightly out of place. Without paying any particular
attention to what he was doing, he pulled out this piece of paper,
and glancing at it, saw that it was covered with writing in a man’s
hand. He noticed too that it was heavily scented, and in every
way as elegantly devised as a note could possibly be. Moreover, oddly
enough he knew the writing (of which there was plenty, for it covered
both sides of a double sheet). There could be no mistake. This was
Kashiwagi’s hand. His servant, who had brought a mirror into the room
and now began to do his master’s hair, was not in any way surprised
to see him take possession of the note, for he supposed it to be one
that Genji and Nyosan had been reading together on the day before. But
Kojijū, who was also present, was startled to observe that it was of
the same colour as the letter she had herself delivered. While serving
Genji’s breakfast she never for an instant took her eye off this blue
letter, that lay folded beside his bowl. Of course it could not be
the same. Lots of people wrote on paper like that. The mere fact that
it had been left lying about showed that it must be something quite
different. The Princess would never have been so mad....
Meanwhile Nyosan was quietly sleeping. What a feather-hearted little
creature she was! He had always suspected that expressions of feeling
conveyed nothing to her mind whatever; and from the way in which she
left such a letter as this (for he had already cast an eye over it)
lying where any one might find it, he was convinced that its contents
had no meaning for her at all. It was fortunate indeed that it was he
who had found it, and not some outside person, upon whom the fact that
she was receiving such letters would make a wholly erroneous impression.
‘What did you do with that note I brought yesterday?’ Kojijū said,
when Genji left the room. ‘I saw His Highness looking just now at a
letter that looked very much like it.’ Nyosan immediately remembered
only too well what she had done with it. ‘Where did you put it?’ went
on Kojijū, seeing that her eyes had suddenly filled with tears. ‘When
we heard some one coming, I thought it might look as though there
were a secret between us if I were found alone with you, and to be on
the safe side I made off as fast as I could. But as a matter of fact
it was some while before His Highness actually entered the room, and I
supposed that during this time you would have managed to find somewhere
safe to put the letter.’ ‘I had only that very moment begun reading it
when he came in,’ she sobbed. ‘I just stuffed it away anywhere I could;
and then I forgot about it....’ Helplessly she indicated the place
under the mattress. Kojijū went and examined it. ‘There’s nothing there
now,’ she said. ‘This is an awful business. I would give anything that
it should not have happened. It was only the other day that Kashiwagi
begged me to make you be more careful. He is terrified of Prince Genji
getting wind of this. And now, no sooner do I put a letter in your
hands than you leave it just where it was most likely to catch His
Highness’s eye. However, it is all of a piece with the way you have
always carried on. I shouldn’t say it, but you have no more idea how to
behave than a baby. First of all you leave all your screens in disorder
and let him see you. Then you allow him to go on for month after month
writing desperate letters to you, and finally drive him to such a pitch
of madness that he insists upon being allowed to see you. It was I who
arranged it, I own; but I don’t mind telling you I would never have
dreamed of bringing him, if I had supposed that you could look after
yourself no better than you did. Well, I’m sorry for you both!’ So she
scolded the girl, speaking to her as though she were a person of her
own class; for Nyosan was so completely lacking in self-consequence
that it was difficult for those about her to remember she was Genji’s
favourite and the Emperor’s sister.
At Kojijū’s harsh words she only wept the more. During the course
of the day her people noticed that she was in very low spirits
and ate nothing at all. ‘Instead of fussing all the while about Lady
Murasaki, who, if she was ever ill at all, is now perfectly recovered,
His Highness might give a little more attention to our young lady, who
really has got something the matter with her,’ they said.
As soon as he was alone Genji pulled out the letter and studied it more
attentively. He did not now feel so certain that it was written by
Kashiwagi. The writing indeed looked to him much more like an attempt
to imitate Kashiwagi’s hand, and he came to the conclusion that it
must be the work of some waiting-woman, who had concocted the letter
as a practical joke. But the style did not in the least bear out this
supposition. Granted the document was genuine, several facts emerged:
the writer had been in love with Nyosan for several years, he had once
at any rate obtained access to her, but now something had gone wrong,
and the writer of the letter was evidently very ill at ease. All this
could have been deduced without difficulty by any one who saw the
letter. Since when (Genji wondered) had people taken to writing in this
reckless and inconsiderate manner? For letters are ticklish things;
one never knows into whose hands they may fall—as he himself had good
reason to remember.[121] But, after all, there are ways of protecting
oneself. Never had Genji in his life (or so he now felt convinced)
addressed a woman whom he loved in terms so crude, so tactless, so
flatly incriminating; and he was filled not so much with anger at
Kashiwagi’s presumption as contempt for his stupidity.
Genji’s thoughts ran on. What must he do with Nyosan? Of course there
was no longer any doubt how she came to be in her present condition.
The simplest thing would be to go on as if nothing had happened. This,
he felt, would have been impossible if the knowledge of their intrigue
had come to him from outside. But having made the discovery for
himself, he was free to use it as he chose. Yet was he free? He tried
to imagine himself visiting her, joking, pretending to know nothing....
It was easy enough to decide on such a course, but utterly impossible
to carry it out. He knew that when he was merely amusing himself with
some one, without really being in love, the discovery that this person
was receiving attentions from another man at once made it impossible
for him to continue his own mild dalliance. In such cases it galled him
that another should receive what he himself had never even claimed.
And now Nyosan.... No, this was something that he could never forgive.
As for Kashiwagi, his conduct had been of an insolence and treachery
such as Genji would not have imagined any human being to be capable
of. Suddenly it occurred to him that there was a certain resemblance
between this episode and another, in which he himself had figured. But
that was a very different affair. There is something special about an
Emperor’s concubines. To begin with, many of them hold their position
for reasons of State; no personal tie attaches them to their Master,
and it is assumed that they are free to seek distraction elsewhere.
Then again, the ladies and gentlemen of the Emperor’s entourage are
through the very nature of their service thrown together in a way
peculiar to the Court, and intimacies, such as could not without the
gravest scandal be divulged, are constantly springing into existence,
to be suspended at a moment’s notice if they are in any danger of
being observed. Nor in the promiscuous life of the Palace are such
shifts and changes, such sudden alliances and dissolutions, likely
to attract the slightest attention. But this seduction of Nyosan
was an entirely different matter. She, on her side, knew quite well
all the circumstances that had induced him to take charge of her,
knew that he had expended infinite pains in her education and
improvement, had risked on her behalf a breach with the one being to
whom his whole heart was drawn. Such ingratitude was unthinkable! That
any one who belonged to him should turn elsewhere for affection—and
to a person such as Kashiwagi—was more than he could be expected to
endure. And yet, unless he were willing to make himself ridiculous, the
alternatives to enduring it were not very obvious.
Suddenly it occurred to Genji to ask himself whether perhaps his
father, the Old Emperor, had not been in just the same fix. No doubt
he too (though Genji had never before suspected it) knew perfectly
well what was going on, and had merely pretended not to see. There was
no denying it: that was a disgraceful affair, as indeed he had always
known; though all that his father might have suffered through it he had
never till this moment guessed.
Murasaki at once saw, when he arrived, that something was on his mind.
She thought that he had reluctantly left the New Palace merely out of
pity for her, and was worried at being obliged to spend so much time
out of Nyosan’s company. ‘You really need not have come back so soon,’
she said. ‘I am much better now, while Nyosan, they tell me, is very
poorly.’
‘She looks a little bit out of sorts,’ he answered. ‘But there is
nothing serious the matter with her, and I do not feel there is any
need for me to remain there. But her family makes a great fuss. The
Emperor is always sending to enquire after her. A messenger came
while I was there to-day. I do not think he is really worried, but
his father[122] expects it of him, and is always keeping him up to
the mark. They both of them have their eye on me, and so I have to
be extremely careful.’ ‘I don’t mind what the Emperor thinks,’
Murasaki replied. ‘But I should be very sorry indeed if my illness
caused Nyosan to think you were neglecting her. And even if she
understands, I am so afraid that some of her gentlewomen may make
mischief....’ ‘You are evidently far more solicitous concerning Nyosan
than I am myself,’ he said, laughing. ‘And for your sake I must try
to take my responsibilities more seriously. But I fear I shall never
succeed in working out what effect my actions may have on her maids and
dependents. You may think me heartless, but I confess that if I avoid
getting into trouble with the Emperor, I shall be quite satisfied. I
am hoping that next time I go to the New Palace you will be able to
come with me.’ ‘I am afraid that will not be for some while yet,’ she
answered. ‘Do, I beg of you, go and live there again at once. It would
be such a comfort to Nyosan. I will follow when I can.’ But days passed
without his making the move.
Nyosan regarded his absence as a sign that she was in disgrace. True,
he had often before deserted her for weeks on end; but in those days
she had done nothing bad, and it had therefore not occurred to her that
his staying away might be meant as a punishment. She was also terrified
lest her father should hear that Genji never came to see her; for she
had got it into her head that Suzaku too would at once think she had
done something wicked.
The next time Kashiwagi tried to send a letter, Kojijū, rather glad of
an opportunity to bring the business to an end, told him flatly what
had happened to his last note. Kashiwagi was appalled.
If such an affair as this went on for a considerable time it was almost
inevitable (he knew) that some rumour of it should eventually leak out.
But there was no reason why any actual proof should exist; and if the
parties concerned chose to deny it stoutly enough, people often ended
by believing that nothing much had really happened. And here was
Nyosan, after the infinite care that he had taken not to arouse the
faintest suspicion on any side, leaving under the very nose of the
person principally concerned a document of the most incriminating kind.
It was the hottest time in the year; but at the receipt of this news
he turned so icy cold from head to foot that he veritably thought he
would freeze to death. It was not as though Genji had been a stranger
(though even then it would have been bad enough, considering his rank
and influence). Always, for years past, it had been for Kashiwagi
that he had sent whenever either pleasure or business demanded the
presence of some chosen friend whom he liked and could trust. And
this obvious partiality of Genji for his company had been one of the
greatest joys in Kashiwagi’s life. There could now be no question of
their ever being friends again. That was of course the worst; but the
actual and immediate question of how to behave towards Genji for the
moment fretted Kashiwagi till he became positively ill. If he stayed
away altogether every one would want to know the reason, and Genji
himself, if by any chance he had failed to be absolutely convinced of
Kashiwagi’s guilt, would then no longer be in doubt. Beset by continual
panic and forebodings he shut himself up indoors. Constantly he assured
himself that this overwhelming sense of guilt was out of all proportion
to the magnitude of his crime. But he could not get out of his head the
idea that by this one act he had forfeited all right to exist.
He felt now that it was madness on his part not to have foreseen what
would happen. From the moment she exposed herself on that ill-fated
evening of the football match he ought to have known she would prove
utterly undependable. No doubt Yūgiri, to whom he had certainly
betrayed his excitement on the way home that night, had known
quite well what was in store for him, should he attempt to carry on
a secret intrigue with a creature so completely lacking in the most
elementary sense of responsibility or even loyalty (for he could hardly
imagine that anyone could merely _forget_ to put a note of that kind
somewhere out of sight). But though he tried at times to escape from
his own sense of guilt by reflections of this kind, he was all the
while extremely sorry for Nyosan and fully conscious of the terrible
predicament in which he had landed her.
At last Genji visited the New Palace. Of course there could be no
question now of his ever again feeling any affection for her; yet, so
much sympathy did her obvious wretchedness and terror arouse in him,
that he found himself longing to console her, caress her—to pretend,
in fact, that everything was the same as before. But this lasted for
a very short while. Expenditure on her behalf, solicitude for her
comfort—these were easy enough; but when it came to speaking to her in
such a manner that those present would not detect any embarrassment or
frigidity, then he was hard put to it indeed, and by his own unavailing
struggles knew something of what her misery must be. It soon became
clear that he did not intend to refer in any way to what had happened;
but this, so far from giving Nyosan confidence, seemed only to imprint
a more abject look of shame and contrition upon her downcast face. She
could not be certain how much he had discovered or what conclusions he
had drawn; and to look as though she were being scolded, when precisely
the opposite was happening, in itself betrayed her guilt. Such
behaviour was indeed part and parcel of the same utter childishness
that had brought about this whole catastrophe.
Meanwhile the news of Nyosan’s condition reached Suzaku in his mountain
retreat. He was of course delighted. He knew that during the
worst period of Murasaki’s illness Genji had for months on end been
absent from the New Palace; but this, under the circumstances, was
perfectly natural. It appeared that even after her partial recovery
Genji had continued to be perhaps unduly nervous of leaving her; and
this protracted neglect, for which Nyosan would see no adequate cause,
had no doubt tried her patience. Not that in any of her letters she had
ever complained. But it was only too likely that some of her people
had, in their indiscreet zeal, talked against Genji at Court or in
social gatherings elsewhere. Suzaku could only hope that Nyosan had
herself done nothing to countenance such gossip. He had lost interest
in all other worldly matters; but his affection for his daughter
remained as keen as ever. The letter that he now wrote to her happened
to arrive on one of the rare occasions when Genji was at the New
Palace. ‘I am afraid it is a long time since you heard from me,’ he
said; ‘but I always think about you a great deal. As soon as I heard
of your condition I put a special supplication on your behalf into my
prayers. Please be sure to let me know how you get on. I am afraid
that, through no one’s fault, you have been left a great deal alone in
the last few months Remember that, even if this should continue, it is
no fault of Genji’s; and above all things avoid giving him or any one
else the impression that you are in the slightest degree resentful of
these long absences.’
The position was a very difficult one. Genji had not intended ever to
speak to Suzaku of what had happened. But sooner or later the girl’s
father would see that Murasaki’s illness was quite unconnected with
the present estrangement. Unless he were told the truth Suzaku would
think that Genji had broken all his promises in the cruellest and most
treacherous manner. ‘How are you going to reply?’ he said, turning to
Nyosan. ‘I wonder who told him that I was neglecting you? If we
are nowadays on rather distant terms, it is certainly through no fault
of mine.’ Blushing deeply, she turned away her head. ‘I think what
most bothers your father,’ he continued, ‘is the knowledge that you
are so childish and entirely unable to look after yourself. You must
try in future to show him that he need no longer worry about you on
that account. I had not meant to tell him about this business. But it
is clearly impossible that you and I should be on the same terms as
before; and if he is going to interpret this change as a dereliction on
my part, I should be obliged to explain matters to him. I had not meant
to discuss this even with you; but while we are on the subject, I may
as well say that if you have found some one who can make you happier
than I do, by all means go to him.... I think that from your own point
of view you are behaving very imprudently; but whether that is so,
events will prove.
‘It does not in the least surprise me that you should feel as you do.
For one thing, novelties are inevitably more interesting, and you have
known me since you were a child. But the real trouble is that I am too
old for you. It is true. I am hideously old. Indeed, what in the world
could be more natural than that an infant like you should desire to
escape from me? I only make one condition. So long as your father is
alive we must keep up the pretence, tiresome old person though you may
find me, that I am still your husband. Afterwards you may do as you
like. But I cannot bear that Suzaku should know what has in reality
been the end of this wonderful marriage of ours, upon which he built
all his hopes. It is not at all likely that he will live much longer.
If you do not wish to add to his sufferings, please let us for the
present have no more episodes of this kind.’
But as he said the words he caught in his own voice a familiar
intonation. How often, years ago, those responsible for his upbringing
had adopted just this tone, and how dreary, how contemptible he had
thought their self-righteous homilies. ‘Boring old man!’ That was what
she must be thinking, and in sudden shame he relapsed into a complete
silence, during which he drew her writing-case towards him, carefully
mixed the ink and arranged the paper. But Nyosan was by now sobbing
bitterly, and her hand shook so much that at first she was unable to
write. How very differently must her pen have flowed, Genji mused,
when she sat down to answer the letter he had found under her cushion!
But now, even when her hand ceased to tremble, she was quite unable to
frame her sentences, and he was obliged to dictate the whole letter.
The celebration of Suzaku’s fiftieth birthday, again and again
deferred, had now been fixed for the middle of the twelfth month.
Arrangements for the dancing and music were already in active progress
at the New Palace, and Murasaki, who had meant to put off her return
some time longer, suddenly took it into her head that all this bustle
would help to distract her from her sufferings. She was accordingly
moved into her old apartments without further delay. The Akashi
Princess was also in residence at the New Palace, with her little boy,
Niou, and her second child, also a boy. They were both delightful
children, and it was a great pleasure to have them in the house.
Genji, who had not taken at first very kindly to the idea of being a
grandfather, now played with them for hours on end.
Kashiwagi was of course invited to the rehearsal. He knew that if he
stayed at home on such an occasion he would feel extremely bored and
miserable; moreover his absence would be remarked upon by every one and
might arouse unwelcome suspicions. But when the invitation arrived he
wrote that he was too ill to come. Genji was certain that only a
very serious and definite illness would have kept him away upon such
an occasion, and wrote again, begging him to accept. His father Tō no
Chūjō pointed out that Genji would certainly be offended. ‘Every one
knows that there is nothing serious the matter with you,’ he said,
‘and on musical occasions of this kind your help is very much needed.’
Finally Kashiwagi promised to go. He arrived before the other princes
and courtiers who were expected, and was at once admitted behind
Genji’s screens-of-state. He did indeed not look at all well. He was
thin, pale, utterly lacking in the buoyancy and high spirits that were
the common possession of his family. He wore a thoughtful, serious air,
like one who is over-conscious of his responsibilities. Just the kind
of person, thought Genji, whom one would hit upon to put in charge of
a flighty young princess. Probably they were very well suited to one
another, and if only such an arrangement had been thought of before....
Indeed it was not so much what had happened, as the way in which it had
taken place, that he would never be able to forgive. If only either of
them had behaved with the slightest consideration....
But he spoke to Kashiwagi without a trace of coldness or disapproval.
‘What a long time it is since we last met!’ he said. ‘And there has
really been no particular reason. I have, of course, a great deal of
illness in the home. Things are better; but the arrangements connected
with Suzaku’s birthday have kept me very busy, and I have also been
obliged to have services read on behalf of his daughter, who, as you
know, is now living here with me. Suzaku has taken his vows, and it
would be unseemly to celebrate his birthday with the same festivities
that we should use were he a layman. But it so happens that there are
at present in my house a number of young boys, and I know that it would
give Suzaku great pleasure if I trained them to do a few dances
in his honour on the day of the celebration. There is no one who can
be so useful to me in this matter as yourself, and I am very grateful
to you for having forgiven my long neglect and thus hurried to assist
me.’ While these words were being spoken Kashiwagi felt his colour
continually come and go. It was some time before he could master his
feelings sufficiently to reply. At last he said: ‘I was very sorry to
hear of all your troubles. Since the spring I myself have been very
unwell. I think it is really an attack of beri-beri. I have often
been almost unable to walk. It is months since I got even so far as
the Palace, and I feel as though I had been utterly shut off from the
world. No one owes more to Suzaku than I do; but I am afraid that, had
not my father reminded me, I should have entirely forgotten about his
fiftieth birthday. If you will forgive my suggesting it, I do not think
that a very elaborate ceremony would be at all to Suzaku’s taste. When
the deputation visits him, a few unambitious songs and dances, with
plenty of time afterwards for quiet conversation with his guests—that,
I think, is what would give him most pleasure.’ ‘I entirely agree with
you,’ answered Genji. ‘Of course, we must not cut things down so much
as to seem disrespectful; but if you are in charge I shall have no
anxiety on that score. Yūgiri is now thoroughly competent as regards
public ceremonies and the like; but he has never understood much about
art. Suzaku is so good a critic in all such matters, particularly as
regards music and dancing, that what little we do must at all costs be
done properly. That is why I want you to help Yūgiri in arranging the
little boys’ dances. The professional dancing-masters are hopeless.
Each of them has his own set of tricks, and nothing can persuade him to
vary them.’
It would have been impossible for anyone to speak more kindly than
Genji had just spoken; but Kashiwagi, though fully sensible of this
fact, still felt as uncomfortable as when he first entered the room.
Once this business about the rehearsal had been settled, there seemed
nothing else to talk about, and after a few unsuccessful attempts to
begin their usual sort of conversation, Kashiwagi quietly withdrew.
The rehearsal took place in the Music Room that opened out of the
Fishing Pavilion, the dancers appearing at the foot of a high mound.
There was a thin sprinkling of snow upon the ground; but the air had in
it a softness which suggested that Spring was camping somewhere close
at hand, and already the orchards were whitening with the first faint
tinge of bloom.
As the day wore on, the scene grew somewhat riotous. Every one drank
heavily, and the older men, at the sight of their grandchildren’s
performance (which was indeed a very pretty one, the dancers all
being of minute size), tended to become rather maudlin. ‘All right,
Kashiwagi; don’t look so contemptuous!’ Genji shouted across to him.
‘Just wait a few years, and you’ll find a little wine will make your
tears flow quite as fast as ours!’ Kashiwagi made no reply, and Genji,
looking at him more attentively, saw that he was not only (alone among
the whole company) entirely sober, but also extremely depressed.
Surely, thought Kashiwagi, every one can see that I am far too ill to
take part in such a scene as this. How inconsiderate of Genji (who
was certainly not nearly so drunk as he pretended) to call attention
to him by shouting across the room in that way! No doubt it was meant
as a joke; but Kashiwagi found it quite impossible to be amused. He
had a violent headache, and each time the flagon came round he merely
pretended to drink out of it. Genji presently noticed this, and sending
it back, pressed him again and again to take his share.
At last he could endure the banquet no longer, and though the
proceedings showed no signs whatever of coming to a close, he dragged
himself to his feet and left the room. He had such difficulty in
walking that he at first imagined he must have drunk far more than he
intended. But this explanation would not hold, for he could clearly
recollect all that had happened, and was quite certain that he had
not taken enough to cause any such effect as this. He definitely
connected his present sensations with the strain of appearing in
Genji’s presence. But embarrassing though the ordeal had been, it would
scarcely account for the fact that he was in his present state of
complete collapse.
It soon became apparent that his was no mere migraine or surfeit, but
the beginning of a desperate malady. His mother proposed to remove him
to his father’s house, where she thought he could be better looked
after. Kashiwagi knew that such a step would be extremely painful to
his wife Princess Ochiba, who had for months past endured his complete
neglect of her with exemplary patience, always hoping that he would
in the end recover from his present disastrous infatuation. The
assumption that now, at the onset of a serious illness, she was not
the proper person to take charge of him, would seem (as Kashiwagi was
well aware) to mark the end of their brief and unhappy relationship.
Ochiba’s mother was also present. ‘They ought never to have suggested
such a thing,’ she said indignantly. ‘Under no possible circumstances
have the parents any right to separate a man from his wife. Even if
Kashiwagi only stays there till he recovers, the separation will be a
most painful one for my daughter. She is perfectly capable of looking
after him, and I can see no reason why he should not remain here, at
any rate until it is proved that he is not making sufficient progress.’
Kashiwagi heard all this, and he felt that she was right. ‘I knew from
the first,’ he said to Ochiba’s mother, ‘that as regards birth I
was hopelessly inferior to the Princess. But I hoped as time went on to
climb high enough in the Government to compensate for this inequality.
However, since this terrible illness came upon me I have lost all hope
of justifying myself in that way, and all I care about now is that she
should not feel I have been altogether unkind to her. Shall I have
time ever to do so much as that? Who knows? In any case, I have no
desire to move....’ The upshot was that for the present he stayed in
his own house. But his mother could not believe he was being properly
looked after. ‘I am very sad about Kashiwagi,’ she said. ‘He does not
any longer care to have me with him. In old days, if he was the least
bit unwell or out of spirits, I would always leave my other children
and come to look after him. And he liked me to be there; I know he
did....’ She went to her son’s house and made another attempt to bring
him away. This time he relented. It was quite true that his mother had
been fonder of him than of the rest. Perhaps it was only because he
was her first child. But be that as it may, her devotion to him both
in the past and since his marriage had been such that he felt it would
be cruel to the point of wickedness not to let her take him to a place
where she could during those last days be always at his side. He said
to Ochiba: ‘Do not worry about me. As soon as I am any worse I will let
you know, and you can come round quietly to my father’s house. Forgive
me for having treated you as I have done. I cannot understand now how I
came to behave so foolishly. If only I had known that I had so short a
time ahead of me....’ Weeping bitterly, he was carried to his father’s
house; Ochiba remained behind, in a state of unspeakable agitation and
suspense. The arrival of Kashiwagi in this condition was a great shock
to his father Tō no Chūjō. But he reflected that the illness was
not so sudden as people were making out. He had noticed for months that
the boy was hardly eating anything, often taking no more than a paltry
orange, and sometimes refusing even that. Under such circumstances he
could not fail to lose his strength.
The sudden collapse of so well-known and talented a figure provoked
in all quarters the liveliest regret. Every one at Court came to
enquire after his progress; the Emperor and Suzaku both sent frequent
messengers, while the grief of his parents need not be described. Genji
too was very much upset, sent constant messages of enquiry, and wrote
several letters of encouragement and sympathy to Tō no Chūjō. Above
all, Yūgiri, who had been his closest friend, was in great distress,
and now spent most of his time at Kashiwagi’s bedside.
The celebration of Suzaku’s birthday was fixed for the twenty-fifth
of the twelfth month. The serious illness of so prominent a person,
casting a gloom not only over his own family, but also over so great a
part of the higher circles at Court, made the time chosen a singularly
unfortunate one. But the affair had for so long been postponed from
month to month, that to defer it on account of an illness that might
go on indefinitely was out of the question. Moreover, Nyosan, who
had already spent much time in planning the arrangements, would (he
thought) be grievously disappointed. The ceremony accordingly took
place on the appointed day; prayers were said in the usual Fifty
temples, and in Suzaku’s own retreat the Scripture of the Great Sun
Buddha[123] was solemnly recited.
[106] About three and a half years. This jump, which may read as though
it were a ‘cut’ made by the translator, exists in the original.
[107] He was really Genji’s son, not the old Emperor’s. In sacrificing
at the Imperial tomb, etc., he was committing an outrage upon the dead.
[108] The soothsayers taught that there were several ‘dangerous ages’
in the lives both of men and women. A few centuries later thirty-three
was commonly regarded as a woman’s most dangerous age. Nowhere else is
thirty-seven mentioned; but it is to be noted Fujitsubo died at the age
of thirty-seven.
[109] See vol. i, chap. v.
[110] His intrigue with Fujitsubo.
[111] She was now Consort of the Emperor; but had not been proclaimed
Empress.
[112] By spirits, demons or the like.
[113] Dreaming of a cat signifies that a child will be born.
[114] Fudō.
[115] See above, p. 186.
[116] As it was a Shintō shrine, the rival religion (Buddhism) could
not be mentioned there.
[117] Partly with the idea of securing Murasaki’s safety; partly lest
the words spoken by Rokujō through the boy’s mouth should be overheard.
[118] A pun on Genji’s name Hikaru, ‘The Shining One.’
[119] ‘If it were in our power to keep the cherry-blossom on the tree,
we should cease so much to admire it.’
[120] A Buddhist doctrine.
[121] Cf. vol. ii, p. 91.
[122] Suzaku.
[123] In Sanskrit, Mahā-vairocana; in Japanese, Dainichi. The chief
Buddha of the Mystical (Tantric) Sect.
CHAPTER VIII
KASHIWAGI
The New Year brought with it no change in Kashiwagi’s condition. A
fatal issue seemed certain, and on his own account he had not the
slightest wish to avoid it. If indeed from time to time he seemed to
be struggling against his fate, it was because he dared not reveal to
his parents how little he dreaded a separation, the prospect of which
manifestly caused them so bitter an affliction.
From his early childhood the one thing that he had never been able to
endure was the feeling of inferiority. In small things and great it had
always been the same: if he could not gain the prize, win the game,
receive the highest appointment, he at once conceived the profoundest
contempt for himself and felt his whole life to be utterly useless.
And now, when things had indeed gone far more wrong with him than ever
before, this feeling of self-contempt was so overwhelming that all
thought of his earthly existence became intolerable to him. He would
have been happiest had it been possible to end his days in some country
temple; but he knew only too well that his parents’ distress at such
a step would be continually present in his mind, and utterly destroy
the peace which such a place would otherwise afford. Supposing he did
after all recover from this illness? Worse than the general scandal and
discredit, worse than the spectacle of Nyosan’s misery and disgrace,
would be the knowledge that Genji no longer respected him. They had
been friends for so long, were bound together by so many ties of common
recollection and experience; and only in this one matter had he
ever betrayed this friendship. He knew that when he was dead, nay, so
soon as it was apparent that he was dying, his final act of treachery
would be forgotten, and the long years of their intimacy be cherished
and remembered. So sure was he of this that it made the prospect of
death doubly welcome to him.
One day, being left alone for a little while, he wrote a letter to
Nyosan, in which he said: ‘I imagine you heard that I had fallen
dangerously ill. You have, since then, shown no sign of wanting to
know what has become of me. Perhaps that is quite natural under the
circumstances, but it makes me sad to feel....’ His hand trembled so
much that he could not write all he meant to, and closed suddenly with
the poem: ‘Even amid the smoke that hangs above my smouldering pyre
shall burst into new brightness the unquenchable glitter of my love.’
‘Give me one kind word,’ he added, ‘to light my steps through the
darkness that my own folly has cast about the path where I must walk.’
This he sent by the hand of Kojijū along with many last messages and
injunctions. The servant-girl, though she was well enough used to being
employed on these errands (for the affair had begun when she was a
mere child), had since Kashiwagi’s abuse of her good offices been in a
state of violent indignation against him. But now, hearing such phrases
as ‘for the last time’ and ‘never again,’ she at once lapsed into
tears, and when she delivered the letter, besought Nyosan to answer it
while there was still time. ‘I am sorry that he is ill,’ said Nyosan;
‘but I am far too wretched now all day long to feel very differently
because this thing or that has gone wrong. Kashiwagi has made enough
mischief already, and I am not going to make more by being caught in
correspondence with him.’ Such resolutions on her part were never the
result of firmness, but rather of fear that Genji, who had still only
referred in vague terms to her escapade, might again find it
necessary to speak to her upon this shameful subject—a prospect that
filled her with the utmost misery and dismay. But Kojijū began quietly
preparing the Princess’s writing things, and presently, with many
hesitations, she produced an answer, which Kojijū under cover of night
managed to convey secretly to Tō no Chūjō’s house.
The quiet of Kashiwagi’s apartments now began to be rudely disturbed;
for Tō no Chūjō, still desperately clinging to the hope that his son’s
life could be saved, was continually bringing to the bedside some new
miracle-worker or healer. Ascetics from mount Katsuragi, famous clerics
from the great temples and priests from obscure village shrines,
holy men of every rank and description filled the house. Among the
magic-workers whom, at their father’s bidding, Kōbai[124] and the rest
brought back from the hills, were some Yamabushi[125] of the most
repulsive and ferocious aspect; nor were the priests from nearer at
hand much less uncouth in appearance, as with wildly rolling eye and
harsh voice they intoned their Sanskrit spells. The soothsayers and
diviners were for the most part agreed that the evil influence at work
upon the sick man was of a feminine kind. But they did not succeed in
detecting any actual ‘possession,’ and it was in the hope of finding
some one who could dislodge this mysterious influence that Tō no Chūjō
had collected this motley crowd of clerics and healers. ‘How I hate
this noise!’ cried Kashiwagi at last. ‘It may be because of my sins—I
do not know—but so far from giving me any comfort this jangle of holy
words dismays me, and I feel I should live longer were it utterly to
cease.’ So saying, he dragged himself into the inner room. His real
object was to meet Kojijū, but to Tō no Chūjō it was given out that
Kashiwagi was asleep. Chūjō was no longer young; but he was still
for the most part very lively and amusing in his conversation. To see
him now solemnly and endlessly discussing Kashiwagi’s symptoms with
these grim practicants was a strange and saddening spectacle. Listening
from the inner-room Kashiwagi overheard him saying: ‘I am convinced
there is a definite “possession,” and I implore you not to rest till
you have detected it.’ ‘What is that he is saying?’ said Kashiwagi
to Kojijū. ‘I suppose the soothsayers have discovered that it is a
female influence; for I am sure my father still knows nothing of the
real story. Well, if indeed her spirit clings to mine I am proud to
die from such a cause. But as for my offence itself, we make too much
of it. Such things have happened often enough in the past, and will
happen again. What makes me glad to die is not remorse for my guilt,
but a strange terror that comes over me when I think that Prince Genji
knows my secret. In some way it is his glamour, his dazzling ascendancy
that, after what has happened, make life impossible for me. From the
moment I met his gaze on the night of the music-practice some sudden
cleavage took place in my soul, and its brighter element floated away
from me, far off, perhaps to her side, leaving only the dull dross
behind. Kojijū, should you find a soul at large in the New Palace, bind
it fast to your girdle and bring it back to me.’ He was now very weak,
and said this half laughing, half crying. Kojijū then told him Nyosan
had received his message. Her shame, her contrition, her downcast
gaze and sunken cheeks—all appeared so vividly before him that he did
indeed feel as though, at the mere mention of her name, his soul was
torn from him and drawn irresistibly to her side. ‘So soon as I have
heard that she has passed safely through her present danger,’ Kashiwagi
continued, ‘I shall be ready to depart. You remember that dream I
had—of a cat following me into the room? I never consulted any one
about it, but in my heart of hearts I always knew what it foretold.’
The intensity of his passion, which seemed, while he lay here inactive,
continually to gather fresh depth and concentration, struck Kojijū
usually as something morbid and terrifying. But now she could not
withhold her sympathy and began weeping bitterly. Kashiwagi now sent
her to fetch a paper candle and by its light examined Nyosan’s reply.
Her hand was still unformed, but was beginning to have certain good
points in it. ‘Do not suppose,’ she wrote, ‘that I have all this while
been indifferent to your sufferings. But was it easy for me to express
my sympathy? Put yourself for a moment into my position. As for your
poem, “May the smoke of my ashes mingle with the flame of your pyre,
for to evade the torment of condemning thoughts my need is as great
as yours.”’ Never had she addressed him in such a tone; this at least
was something to carry into the other world. His reply looked much as
though birds with wet feet had walked over the paper; for he wrote
it lying on his back, and the ill-guided pen strayed weakly in every
direction. ‘Though nought of me remains save smoke drawn out across the
windless sky, yet shall I drift to thee unerringly amid the trackless
fields of space.’
That evening Nyosan was much indisposed, and the more experienced
among her gentlewomen at once recognized that her delivery was at
hand. They sent hastily for Genji, who, as he made his way to the New
Palace, could not help reflecting how happy and excited this news
would have made him, if only the child had indisputably been his. As
it was, he must show not only the elation but all the solicitude of an
expectant father. Services of intercession must be ordered, priests
and miracle-workers summoned to the palace, spells and incantations
set at work. Her travail lasted all night. At the first ray of morning
sunlight a child was born. It was hard indeed for Genji to
receive this news, and to be told too that the child was a boy, with
all the paternal pride and thankfulness that the occasion (if he were
not to betray his secret) so urgently demanded. As things were, he
was certainly glad that it was a boy; for with a girl’s upbringing
he would have been expected to take much more trouble, whereas a boy
can be left to his own devices. But should the child, when it grew
up, show a striking resemblance to Kashiwagi, this would be far more
likely to attract notice in a boy than in a girl. With how strange an
appropriateness he had been punished for the crime[126] that never
ceased to haunt his conscience! The only consolation was that sins for
which we are punished in this world are said to weigh less heavily
against us in the life to come. In point of fact he did for the child
all that those who believed it to be his own could possibly expect
of him. The Birth Room was fitted out with the utmost prodigality
and splendour, and the usual trays, magic boxes[127] and cake-stands
poured in from every side, the donors vying with one another in the
elegance and ingenuity of the designs with which these customary
gifts were adorned. On the night of the fifth day there arrived
from the ex-Empress Akikonomu a present of delicacies for the young
mother, and gifts for each of her ladies chosen according to their
rank and standing, the presentation of which was carried out in the
most formal and imposing manner. On the seventh night the Emperor’s
presents arrived and were delivered by his State messengers with all
the solemnity of a public occasion. Tō no Chūjō was anxious to show
his good will towards Genji upon what appeared to be so auspicious an
occasion; but owing to Kashiwagi’s alarming condition he was unable to
appear in person. However, the callers included almost every other
figure of importance whether at the Palace or in the Government. It may
be imagined, however, that all these ceremonies, in which to outward
appearances Genji was intimately concerned, gave him in reality nothing
but awkwardness and discomfort. There was even talk of a grand feast
and concert; but with these he managed to dispense.
Nyosan was completely shattered by the ordeal through which she had
just passed, the alarming experience of a first childbirth having come
upon her at a time when she was already in a very enfeebled and morbid
condition. She would not take even so much as a cup of broth; the
presence of the child only served to remind her of her disaster, and
she heartily wished that she might never recover. Genji did what he
could to give those about him the impression that he took an interest
in the child; but days passed without his ever asking to see it, and
this one fact was enough to set the older nurses gossiping: ‘You’d
think he would show more feeling than that,’ they said. ‘Such a lovely
child as Madam has given him, and he never chooses so much as to set
eyes on it!’ These remarks were overheard by Nyosan. This, she felt,
was only a foretaste of the attitude that he was about to take up
towards herself and the child. Under such circumstances life at the
Palace would not, she well knew, be endurable; and she determined so
soon as she was strong enough to enter a nunnery.
He did not spend the night in her apartments, but every morning he
looked in to see how she was getting on. ‘I am sorry I have spent so
little time with you,’ he said. ‘The truth is, I have lately been much
absorbed in various penances and devotions. I feel that I have not
much time left in which to make ready for the life to come—and in any
case there was no use in visiting you when all the ceremonies, with
their attendant bustle and disturbance, were going on in your
part of the house. But I am very anxious to know how you are. Do you
feel quite strong again?’ So saying he bent over her couch and gazed
at her. Raising her head, Nyosan replied, not in the childish voice
that he knew, but in a strangely sobered and disillusioned tone: ‘I
do not think I should have lived through it, had I not known that to
die in such a way[128] is reckoned shameful in the world to come. I am
going to enter a nunnery and see whether I cannot live on there long
enough to lighten the burden of my sins.’ ‘Do not say such things,’
he answered. ‘That the experience through which you have just passed
should have tried you severely is natural enough; but surely it was
not so terrible as to deprive you of all wish to live?’ Did she really
mean what she had said? He was appalled at the idea of her carrying out
such a resolution. And yet he knew well enough all the difficulties
that would arise if they attempted to go on living as though nothing
had happened. He knew his own feelings, knew that no effort of his
own could alter them, and that, try as he might to forget the past,
Nyosan would suffer at every instant from the knowledge that in his
heart of hearts he had not forgiven her. And other people, her father
for example, would inevitably notice the change in their relations.
If, on the other hand, she insisted upon taking her vows, it would
be far better that she should do so at once, making her ill-health
the pretext. Otherwise the step would certainly be attributed to his
unkindness. But then his eye fell upon her long, lovely hair, that
should by rights have delighted his eyes for so many years longer;
and the idea of its being shorn from her by the cleric’s knife was
intolerable to him. ‘Come, come,’ he said; ‘you must pluck up your
courage. Things are not so bad as that. Look at Murasaki, she was
much worse than you have been; but now she is quite out of danger.’
He persuaded her to drink a little of her soup. She was certainly
very thin and pale, indeed in every way alarmingly fragile. But
nevertheless, as he looked at her lying motionless on the bed, he
thought her singularly beautiful, and at that moment all thought of her
unfaithfulness vanished from his mind. To such beauty all things could
be forgiven.
The ex-Emperor Suzaku was much perturbed by the accounts of Nyosan’s
slow recovery. She on her side had, since her extreme physical weakness
set in, felt the need of his support far more than she had ever done
during the early years of their separation, and her women constantly
heard her moaning to herself, ‘If only my father were here! I cannot
bear to die without seeing him once again.’ A messenger was sent
to Suzaku’s mountain temple, it being thought right he should know
that she was continually asking for him. Immediately upon this the
ex-Emperor did what he had thought never in his life to do again—he
left the precincts of the temple, and under cover of night made his way
to the New Palace. Genji was quite unprepared for this sudden arrival,
but hastened to thank the august visitor for the singular honour he
had conferred upon them by his coming. ‘Well,’ said Suzaku, ‘a few
weeks ago no one would have been more surprised than myself if it had
been suggested that I should ever appear in your midst again. But I
have lately been so much perturbed by the accounts of Nyosan’s health
that I find it impossible to go on with my ordinary round of prayers
and devotions. The thought that she, a mere child, may go first, and
I, old and enfeebled, be left behind without even the consolation of
having seen her these many months past, is so terrible to me, that
though I well know my sudden reappearance may easily give great
offence,[129] it was without a moment’s hesitation that I thus hastened
to her side.’ Even in his monastic garb Suzaku was still a graceful and
attractive figure; and though, to escape attention, he had dressed in
the simple black robes of a common priest, his bearing gave to them a
certain dignity and grace of line that made the sight of his altered
guise less saddening than is usually the case. Genji’s eyes indeed
filled with tears when Suzaku first entered the room; but they were
tears of envy rather than sorrow. ‘I do not think there is much the
matter with her,’ he said. ‘Considering how little proper nourishment
she has taken in the last few weeks it would be strange if she were not
feeling out of sorts. But if you do not mind putting up with a rather
uncomfortable seat....’ So saying, he led the ex-Emperor to her bed
and motioned him to a low divan that had been pushed alongside of it.
With the help of her people she shifted a little towards the near side
of the bed. He raised the bed-curtain and said gently: ‘I am afraid
I look very much like the household chaplain arriving to read the
evening incantations. But it does not seem that I shall ever make much
of a name for myself in that line, for all my prayers on your behalf
appear to be singularly unsuccessful. If I have come, it was not in
the belief I could be of any use to you, but merely because I could
not endure to stay away.’ ‘If you had not come,’ she answered amid her
tears, ‘I do not think I should have lived for many hours. But now that
you are here, let me take my vows before it is too late.’ ‘This is a
very serious matter,’ he answered. ‘Of course, if you have considered
it properly and are certain that you would not repent of such a step,
I should be the last person in the world to oppose it. But you are
very young. Should you survive this illness, you have in all
probability a long while yet to live. Your renouncement of the world
at such an age would cause great astonishment, and hard things would
inevitably be said of those on whom your happiness here is supposed to
depend. I hope you have reflected upon these points....’ Then turning
to Genji: ‘I think we ought to consider whether such a step would not
in any case be a great help to her. Even if, as she fears, she has
only a very short time to live, her wishes in such a matter ought to
be respected.’ ‘She has been saying this for days past,’ said Genji.
‘But I had the impression that the evil influence which has possessed
her was causing her to speak thus in order that we might be deceived,
and I paid no attention.’ ‘Doubtless,’ answered Suzaku, ‘when spirits
suggest evil courses to us it is better not to obey them. But when some
one who is obviously in the last stages of weakness and exhaustion
asks us to take a certain step, we are likely afterwards to suffer
from great remorse if we pay no attention to the request.’ This then,
thought Suzaku to himself, was Genji’s attitude towards the loved being
whose happiness he had so confidently entrusted to his keeping. It was
evident, from the way in which Genji spoke, that Nyosan’s wishes had
long ceased to have any importance to him. Indeed, the tone of what
he had just heard fitted in only too well with rumours that had been
reaching him for years past. Well, if Genji’s treatment of her was such
that she preferred the rigours of the cloister, much scandal would
certainly be avoided were she to take her vows now, when her illness
offered a reasonable excuse. However unsatisfactory Genji might have
proved as a husband, he had certainly provided very handsomely for
her in material ways. This fact would under ordinary circumstances
have made it difficult to remove her from his control. But if she
took orders Suzaku could establish her very comfortably in that
roomy pleasant palace in the Third Ward, which his father, the
old Emperor, had once presented to him. While he was alive, he could
keep an eye upon her himself; and Genji, whatever might be his other
preoccupations, would surely not be so unfeeling as wholly to abandon
her. But as to that, events would show.
On finding that Suzaku was not averse to Nyosan’s project, Genji (with
now no thought in his head of the wrong that she had done him) rushed
to her bedside, beseeching her at least to wait until she was stronger.
‘At present and for a long while to come you would be far too weak to
perform the offices of a nun. Eat, drink, recover your strength, and
then will be time to talk more about this.’ But she shook her head,
hating the hypocrisy (as it seemed to her) that forced him to act thus
in Suzaku’s presence. He saw at once that she thought his forgiveness
only a pretence; but how was he to convince her? It was now nearing
dawn, and as Suzaku wished to be back in his monastery before daylight,
it was necessary to act at once. Choosing from among the priests who
were on night-duty in her apartments those who seemed to him most
suitable for the task, he brought them to her, bade them administer
the vows and shave her head. To see those long and lovely tresses cast
aside, to hear her recite the dismal vows, was more than Genji could
bear, and he wept bitterly during the whole of the ceremony. Nor could
Suzaku stand by unmoved while the child for whom he had desired every
worldly blessing, upon whom he had lavished a hundred times more care
than upon any of the rest, made that renouncement of which none would
dream who hoped for further happiness in this earthly life. ‘You can
say the prayers when you are stronger,’ he said hastily and drove away.
For it was growing rapidly lighter. Nyosan was now so weak as to be
but half conscious of what was going on, and she did not bid him
farewell or, apparently, even notice his departure.
During the course of the early morning rituals a ‘possession’ declared
itself, and presently, in tones of laughing malice, a voice was heard
to say: ‘Ha, ha! you thought you were done with me. No such thing.
When number one turned me off, I took service with my lady here, and,
unsuspected of you all, have been giving her my very best attention
ever since. Now I shall go back....’
The news that Nyosan had taken her vows was the final blow to
Kashiwagi’s last flickering desire of recovery. He thought often of
Ochiba, and wished that he could have had her with him. But his parents
had now taken such complete possession of him that he feared she
would feel her position more acutely here than at home, and instead
he made the hopeless suggestion that he should be moved for a while
back into his own house. To this they naturally refused consent. He
discussed Ochiba’s future with various people. Her mother had always
been strongly opposed to the match, and had only yielded to the
insistence of Tō no Chūjō, and also of Suzaku himself, who thought that
he had found in Kashiwagi the straightforward, steady-going husband
that Nyosan’s disaster had taught him to prefer—a man who would be so
flattered by the offer of this connection with the Imperial Family
that all his energies would be spent in proving himself worthy of the
honour! Kashiwagi blushed when he remembered what had been expected of
him. ‘I hope,’ he said to his own mother one day, ‘you will do what
you can for Ochiba when I am gone. I know it is wretched for her to be
left like this, and though it is not my fault that our life together
has lasted for so short a time, she will have the feeling that she has
got very little out of this alliance.’ ‘It’s no good your asking such
things of me,’ said his mother. ‘I shall be in my grave almost
as soon as you.’ It was evident that she did not mean to be of any
use, and he turned to his brother Kōbai, to whom he gave a number of
detailed instructions about this and his affairs in general. Kashiwagi
had always been regarded in the family as a model of solidity and
good sense. His brothers and other young men of the household had
looked upon him as a kind of general parent and protector, so that the
prospect of his loss was a shattering blow to them all.
The Emperor, too, was greatly distressed, and being told that Kashiwagi
was not expected to live much longer, he thought he might safely confer
upon him the rank of Counsellor Extraordinary. He hoped that perhaps
the excitement of receiving this promotion might act as a spur to
Kashiwagi’s failing strength, and even bring him back once more on
a final visit to the Palace. Kashiwagi was of course delighted; but
was obliged to reply that it was impossible for him to receive the
investiture in person.
The first visitor who came to congratulate him on this honour was
Yūgiri, with whom he had always been on particularly intimate terms.
The gate nearest Kashiwagi’s apartments was thronged with riders and
coaches; but since the turn of the year he had been too weak even to
sit up in bed, and was able to receive none of these visitors. But the
very fact of his extreme weakness warned him that, if he were ever
to see Yūgiri again, it would be as well not to let this opportunity
pass, and asking him to forgive the untidy condition of the room, he
dismissed the priests and attendants who were at his bedside, that he
and Yūgiri might enjoy this final visit undisturbed. ‘I hoped to find
you a little stronger to-day. I thought that perhaps this promotion
...’ Yūgiri said, pulling aside the bed-curtains. The white bed-clothes
and (despite his apologies) the neatness and cleanliness of all his
surroundings made Kashiwagi’s abode seem positively enviable in
its brightness and peace. Pleasant perfumes had just been burnt in
the room, and it was evident that the sick man was determined, though
he could do nothing for Yūgiri’s entertainment, not to let the visit
remain in his memory as a disagreeable experience. Yūgiri bent close
down over the pillow, but Kashiwagi was so weak that his voice was
scarcely audible, and it seemed as though he had great difficulty in
breathing. ‘You do not look nearly so bad as I had expected,’ said
Yūgiri. ‘One would never guess you had been laid up for so long.’ But
as he said these words he was obliged to pause and dry his tears. ‘Tell
me about this illness of yours,’ he went on. ‘When did it first begin
to be so serious? Though I know you so well, I feel very much in the
dark about it all.’ After telling him a good deal about the outward
course of his illness, Kashiwagi said: ‘But it is all connected with
something that has been very much on my mind. I ought perhaps to have
spoken about this before; but there cannot be any use in doing so
now. I have often longed to speak to some one, to my brothers, for
example. But whenever I was on the point of talking about it, there
seemed some reason why that particular person was out of the question
as a confidant on such a subject. It was—how shall I say?—a kind of
awkwardness that had arisen between Genji and me. For weeks past I had
been meaning to go into it with him, and already the thing had begun
to weigh so much upon me that life was becoming quite unendurable,
when suddenly he sent for me of his own accord. It was the night of
the music-rehearsal. The moment I entered his presence I felt that
in his heart he was condemning me, and when I met his eyes there was
something in them that robbed me of all courage, of all desire to face
my shame; and since that day I have not known an instant’s happiness or
peace. Of course, Genji must always have regarded me as in every
way far beneath him; but ever since I was a boy he had always shown
the greatest confidence in me. I felt I must have all this out with
him; for if I died with it on my conscience I should be held back from
Salvation in the life to come. However, it is too late now.... But the
greatest kindness you could do me would be to explain matters to him
when I am gone. I know quite well that he will at once forgive me then.
If you would only consent to do that....’ Obscure as this request was,
Yūgiri had some notion what it was about. However, he dared not assume
that he had guessed correctly, and only replied: ‘I think your fears
are entirely imaginary. My father invariably speaks of you with the
greatest good will, and since your illness he has been very anxious
about you, and shown quite clearly again and again how heavy a loss to
him your death would be. If there has been any sort of misunderstanding
between you, why did you not tell me about it before? I am sure I could
easily have cleared it up for you.’ ‘Perhaps it would have been better
if I had,’ he answered. ‘But every day I thought that next day I should
be stronger and more able to tell about such a thing as this, and so in
the end I have left it till too late. Of course, it is essential that
not a hint of this business should go any further. I only spoke to you
because I was sure you would one day contrive to bring up the subject
and do your best to make him see the thing in its true light.
‘And there is something else. Do what you can for Ochiba. I do not want
Suzaku to think that I have left her with no one to keep an eye upon
her.’ There was much more that he eagerly desired to say. But his voice
had quite given out, and when he was finally furnished with paper and a
brush, all he had strength to write was: ‘Please go away!’
Once more the miracle-workers crowded round the bed, his parents
were hastily summoned, as also his sisters, Lady Chūjō and Yūgiri’s
wife, Kumoi. Tamakatsura too, who did not forget that Kashiwagi had
been her suitor before he became her brother, was extremely upset by
the news of his condition, and had many services on his behalf read in
her favourite temples. Yet all was to no purpose, for he now expired
in the presence of his family; but so suddenly that there was no time
to fetch Lady Ochiba from the house in the First Ward. Though he had
never really given her his affection, he had always treated her with
the greatest possible consideration and outward kindness, and she had
no feeling of grievance against him. She was only sad at being left a
widow at so early an age, after having been married to a husband who
seemed, as she thought when looking back upon it, to have taken no
pleasure in life at all.
Nyosan, who since his unhappy exploit had often thought that death
would not be too bad a punishment for him, was aghast to hear of his
end. She remembered how he had predicted the birth of her child.
Perhaps he had not come that day intending to do any harm. Some
meetings (her religion taught her) are ordained by Fate.[130] Had she
after all judged his transgression too harshly?
Yūgiri thought again and again of Kashiwagi’s mysterious request.
That the trouble to which he had alluded was in some way connected
with Princess Nyosan he could not doubt. To begin with, Kashiwagi had
repeatedly betrayed by signs of one sort or another the fact that he
took a particular interest in her. This in the case of Kashiwagi,
usually so reticent, so perfectly in command of himself, meant that
some tremendous force was at work within, and it was not difficult
to imagine that such a passion might have broken out in some painful
scene or indiscreet declaration. Indeed, it was almost certain that a
definite scandal had occurred; if not, why had Genji permitted
the Princess to take her vows at such a ridiculously early age, and
upon the pretext of an illness that appeared to be of very little
consequence?
He did not mention the matter to any one, not even to Kumoi, who shared
all his secrets. But he was determined, next time an opportunity
occurred, simply to repeat to Genji what Kashiwagi had said, and see
whether Genji could make sense of it all, or no. Meanwhile there
was another visit he must pay. For Ochiba, alone with her mother
in that vast, empty palace, the days passed in cheerless fashion
enough. Occasionally one of her brothers-in-law would look in; but
apart from this she had no company and no distractions. From time
to time she would catch sight of his favourite hawk or horse, or
merely of some falconer or groom moping disconsolately about, and
note how man and beast alike wore the same cast-off, ownerless air,
and a like impression of gloom was created by the sight of his other
possessions—his lute and zithern above all, which looked so forlorn
with their strings detached.[131] Over the trees in front of the house
there hung already a thick haze of blossom. These things, she thought,
as she gazed out of the window, went on just as before; and amid her
women who crept to and fro in their dark mourning dress she was feeling
very lonely, when suddenly there was a sound of shouting and a great
ringing of hoofs in the road outside. She expected the sounds to pass
by and fade away into the distance. But to her surprise the cavalcade
drew up at her own door. For a moment she forgot everything, and
thought this was Kashiwagi driving back from the Palace. A note was
brought in. It must of course be Kōbai or one of his brothers. Who else
indeed ever came near her? It caused her some perturbation to discover
that the visitor was no less a person than Yūgiri. She was on the
point of sending her women to make him welcome, when she reflected
that this was not the sort of treatment to which he was probably used,
and in the end her mother ushered him into the side-room of the great
hall. He expressed his sorrow at her daughter’s bereavement and told
her how, shortly before his death, Kashiwagi had committed Princess
Ochiba to his care. ‘I hope before very long to have an opportunity of
showing you that I take this duty very seriously indeed. I should have
come to talk the matter over with you before, had not this last month
been crowded with Court functions which etiquette obliged me to attend.
You can imagine that, as far as my own inclinations were concerned,
I have not been feeling at all in the mood for such junketings, and
would far rather have remained quietly at home. I can judge something
of what poor Ochiba’s feelings must be by what I have seen and heard at
Tō no Chūjō’s house. The loss is after all a far heavier one for her
than for his parents.’ Ochiba’s mother had at first been rather shy
of this unwonted visitor; but his tone was friendly and reassuring.
‘Poor thing!’ she said. ‘We older people do our best to keep up her
courage. After all, she is not the only young widow in the land. She
must try to remember that. I have lived long enough myself to know
that loss and sorrow are what we must expect as our portion in this
life. If happiness comes in, it is only by the way. And I do indeed
wish she would try to be more cheerful. If she goes on like this she
will soon follow him to the grave. You, I know, were Kashiwagi’s great
friend; but I must tell you that I was opposed to this match from the
start. I don’t know why Suzaku was so pleased about it. I suppose he
wanted to do Tō no Chūjō a good turn. But it now seems that, though the
reasons I gave may have been very bad ones, I was perfectly right in my
objection, and I only wish I had not let them talk me down. Not
that I foresaw what would happen. I was merely old-fashioned enough to
disapprove in any case of a marriage outside the Imperial Family. It
turned out, however, to be something even worse than such an alliance.
For her life with Kashiwagi was such that you could call her neither
wife nor maid. That she should now pine to death at the loss of such a
husband may be very good for his reputation in the world outside; but
as her mother I cannot be expected to applaud the sacrifice.’
It was growing late, and as he was due at Tō no Chūjō’s house he was
obliged to retire. Ochiba did not put in an appearance. But this was by
no means his last visit to the palace in the First Ward.
It was the fourth month, and the same level shade of green lay upon
every thicket and wood. The grief-stricken palace and those in it
who had been committed to his charge recurred constantly to Yūgiri’s
thoughts during these enjoyable summer days. One afternoon, finding the
time hang heavy on his hands, he set out earlier than usual upon his
visit to the First Ward. He noticed that a film of grass was already
spreading across the courtyards, and here and there where the sand
had worn thin or in sheltered crannies along the walls, clumps of
motherwort had already squeezed themselves a place. Ochiba’s seat was
to-day for the first time surrounded by thin, summer curtains-of-state,
which, as the wind and light of the early afternoon filtered through
them, looked delightfully fresh and cool. He was met by a little
girl, whose exquisitely poised head pleased him, though she, like
every one else in the house, wore garments that by their drab colour
told the same sad tale. While he waited to learn whether Ochiba could
receive him (her mother was unwell and was said to be lying down) he
was looking at the copses in front of the house and thinking that
they at least knew nothing of what had befallen its inmates and
did not scruple to flaunt their gay summer tints, when he noticed an
oak and a maple, both conspicuous for the brightness of their fresh
foliage, standing side by side, their branches intertwined. ‘I wonder
how they became such friends?’ he said to one of Ochiba’s ladies, and
approaching the curtains-of-state, he recited the verse: ‘What to the
oak you gave, now to its trusted friend the maple-tree, ungracious
Goddess of the Woods, will you deny?’ ‘Those soft summer clothes look
very well on him,’ whispered the ladies-in-waiting, as Yūgiri bent
over the curtains. ‘What elegance! What grace!’ A maid called Shōshō
presently brought the answer: ‘Though the oak be fallen, not yet to
a chance comer shall I give the small twigs of the roof.’ Ochiba’s
mother now appeared, and Yūgiri hastily moved further away from the
curtains. ‘All these weeks of sorrow and disturbance have upset my
health,’ she said, ‘and I am very shaky. But really, it is so good of
you to keep on coming like this, that I felt I must make an effort to
thank you in person.’ She did certainly look very unwell. ‘I am afraid
you are having a very difficult time with Ochiba,’ he said. ‘It is
of course natural that she should be upset; but there is a limit to
all things. We must accept what Fate sends, and make the best of it.
After all, life is short—our sorrows will soon be over.’ But what he
was really thinking was that this Ochiba had obviously a great deal
more in her than people had led him to suppose. Why was it that she
mourned so inconsolably for some one whom she had scarcely known? He
was determined to probe the mystery, and asked all manner of questions
about her. Perhaps she felt now, more than during his lifetime, that
her marriage had rendered her ridiculous in the eyes of society.
Poor thing! She was far from being a great beauty. Yet she was not
downright ugly, or certainly did not appear to be so from what he
had been allowed to see of her. But even if she were, one ought not
to be unkind to a woman merely on account of her plainness, any more
than one had a right to take liberties with her merely because she was
handsome. ‘Please sometimes try to be quite frank with me and confide
your difficulties to me as you would have done to Kashiwagi.’ There was
nothing actually improper in this speech of Yūgiri’s, but it was said
in so impassioned a tone of voice as to be somewhat embarrassing.
Meanwhile Kashiwagi’s loss continued to be severely felt in the country
and at Court. He had been unusually popular in every class of society,
and among people of all ages and professions. Even the most unlikely
kitchen-men and tottering dames at Court continually bemoaned his loss;
while the young Emperor, whose constant companion he had been at all
concerts, feasts and excursions, felt a bitter pang whenever he thought
of the past. And indeed there were few occasions upon which some did
not suddenly exclaim: ‘O Kashiwagi, poor Kashiwagi!’ Only Genji knew
that he had not quitted the world without leaving one small keepsake
behind him, a fact that would have interested the friends of the
deceased, but unfortunately could not be communicated to them.
Nor was this memento of Kashiwagi’s career any longer so insignificant
a creature. For by the time autumn came round it was already crawling
on the floor, and was destined soon to learn other accomplishments.
[124] Younger brother of Kashiwagi.
[125] Mountain ascetics.
[126] His relations with his father’s mistress, Fujitsubo.
[127] Sets of boxes fitting one into the other.
[128] Those who die in childbirth are much handicapped in spiritual
progress beyond the grave.
[129] Suggest that he was meditating a _coup d’état_.
[130] Karma.
[131] In sign of mourning.
CHAPTER IX
THE FLUTE
The first anniversary of Kashiwagi’s death had come. Every day Genji
felt his loss more keenly. The number of persons with whom he was on
easy and informal terms was in any case none too great. But Kashiwagi
had been something more than this. They had shared each other’s lives
and thoughts—at least until the disastrous episode which Genji now
did his best to forget. Besides the masses that on his own account
he caused to be said in Kashiwagi’s memory, he set apart a sum of a
hundred golden pieces which he spent on services that in his own heart
he regarded as being performed in the name of Kaoru, the dead man’s
child. But this must of course remain a secret; for he continued to
bring up the boy as though he were his. Yūgiri not only celebrated the
anniversary in the most solemn manner, but was upon this sad occasion
so prodigal in his attentions to the ladies in the First Ward[132] that
Tō no Chūjō could not help remarking it. ‘Yūgiri,’ he said, ‘is taking
a far larger share in managing my poor son’s affairs than I should ever
have expected. Kōbai and the rest are not nearly so active. He must
have been far more intimate with Kashiwagi than I supposed.’ Yūgiri’s
zeal and all the other marks of the affection and esteem in which
the deceased had been held, served but to make his parents feel more
bitterly the pang of his untimely loss.
To Suzaku, had not the affairs of this world been by now of shadowy
import to him, the tragic outcome of all his paternal solicitude
would indeed have been a shattering blow. Here was Ochiba left
stranded, after a short experience of a marriage that had from the
first been mere mockery; and Nyosan, his beloved Nyosan, for whom he
had hoped such splendid things, dead—at least to all the friendly
and human part of life. As it was, however, it gave him considerable
pleasure to think that his daily occupations—his own round of prayers,
penances and offerings—had now become hers, and he constantly wrote
to her upon small matters connected with the religious life. One day
he sent her a bamboo sprout taken from a wood near his retreat and
some _tokoro_[133] dug up on the neighbouring hillside, and in the
margin of his letter, which was a very long one, he wrote: ‘I send
you these tokens of a hermit’s life, none too easy to come by, now
that the spring mist lies so thick upon the hills. “Though far behind
me you walk upon Salvation’s path, go boldly on and let my goal be
yours.”’[134] She was reading this poem with tears in her eyes, when
Genji entered. What were those strange objects reposing in the lacquer
bowls which she usually kept filled with fruit? Then he saw that she
was reading a letter from Suzaku, which she handed to him. It was very
long, contained many reflections upon his own approaching death, and
lamenting the impossibility of their ever meeting again. The passage
about the _tokoro_ came oddly from Suzaku’s pen, belonging as it did to
pietism rather than to poetry; but Genji read it with a feeling of deep
remorse. No doubt Suzaku had suffered great anxiety and disappointment
over Nyosan’s marriage; and though Genji could not regard this as his
own fault, ‘I do indeed hope,’ he said, ‘that you have no intention of
taking your father’s hint. That you should dream of scaling these
mountain fastnesses is a terrible idea.’ Now that his relation to her
could only be of the slenderest kind, he began to be more than ever
struck by her rather childish beauty, the effect of which seemed only
to be enhanced by the way her hair was cut at the sides, so that its
ends lay flat against her cheeks. It had all been his fault. It was he
who had allowed her to drift away from him; and as though in a futile
effort to repair the remissness of past years he now came very close to
her curtains and spoke to her almost caressingly.
The little boy was asleep in his nurse’s quarters; but presently he was
waked, and crawling into the room made straight for Genji and grabbed
at his sleeve. He was dressed in a little shirt of white floss, over
which was a red coat with a Chinese pattern finely worked upon it. The
skirts of this garment were remarkably long and trailed behind him in
the quaintest way; but it was (as is usual with children of that age)
quite open at the front, showing his little limbs, white and smooth
as a fresh-stripped willow wand. There was certainly in his smile and
the shape of his brow something that recalled Kashiwagi. But where
had the child got his remarkably good looks? Not from his father, who
was passable in appearance, but could not possibly have been called
handsome. To Nyosan, curiously enough, he could see no resemblance.
Indeed the expression that chiefly gave character to the boy’s face (or
so Genji contrived to fancy) was not at all unlike his own.
The child was just beginning to walk. As soon as he entered the room he
caught sight of Suzaku’s strange-looking roots lying in the fruit-dish,
and toddled in that direction. Anxious to discover what sort of things
they were, he was soon pulling at them, scattering them over the floor,
breaking them in pieces, munching them, and in general making a
terrible mess both of himself and the room. ‘Look what mischief he is
up to,’ said Genji. ‘You had better put them somewhere out of sight. I
expect one of the maids thought it a good joke to tell him they were
meant to eat.’ So saying, he took up the child in his arms. ‘What an
expressive face this boy has!’ he continued. ‘I have had very little
to do with children of this age, and had got it into my head that they
were all much alike and all equally uninteresting. I see now how wrong
I was. What havoc he will live one day to work upon the hearts of the
princesses that are growing up in these neighbouring apartments![135]
I am half sorry that I shall not be there to see. But “though Spring
comes each year....”’[136] ‘How can you talk of such a thing?’ every
one said with horror. Little Kaoru was cutting his teeth, and thinking
that one of Suzaku’s bamboo-shoots would be just the thing to press
against his swollen gums, he managed to grab at them, and dribbling
monstrously, thrust one into his mouth. ‘Now he’s really enjoying
himself,’ said Genji. ‘What depraved tastes children do have! “Though
there be that in its stem which is bitter to recall, yet from this
bamboo-shoot no more my heart can I withhold.”’ Reciting this acrostic
poem, he took the child by the hand and tried to persuade him to put
the thing down. But Kaoru, smiling broadly, took not the slightest
notice, and with a great clatter crawled away with his prize as fast as
his arms and legs could carry him.
As the weeks went by, the child grew more and more attractive, and
before long even the ‘touch of bitterness’ that its existence had been
wont to lend to Genji’s thoughts utterly disappeared. He felt that the
child, now a source of so much delight to him, was destined to be
born in that way and no other. Kashiwagi had but been the instrument
of Fate. Among the strange inconsistencies of his apparently enviable
lot, none (thought Genji) was more curious than this, that the one lady
in his household who was of faultless lineage, young, beautiful, in
every way immaculate, should after a short spell of marriage with him
declare her preference for the convent! At such moments some of the old
bitterness against Kashiwagi would for a while return.
All this time Yūgiri had been turning over in his mind what Kashiwagi
had said to him on his death-bed. Had he been entirely ignorant of what
it referred to, he would probably have discussed the matter with Genji
long ago. But as it was, he knew just enough to feel that the subject
was a very embarrassing one, and he wondered whether he should ever
have the courage to embark upon it.
One melancholy autumn evening when he went to pay his accustomed visit
to the ladies in the First Ward, he found Ochiba busily engaged in
playing upon her zithern. She did not wish to be disturbed, and he was
shown into the southern or side-room. As he took his seat he heard
the swish of retreating skirts and caught a pleasant whiff of scent,
those things denoting (as he guessed) that a bevy of ladies had, at
the news of his arrival, hastened to take cover in the inner room. The
visit began by his usual conversation with Ochiba’s mother. While they
were talking together of old times he could not help contrasting the
utter stillness and desolation of this house with the lively stir and
bustle that went on from dawn to dusk in his own palace, teeming as it
did with unruly children and their innumerable attendants. There was
a dignity, a severity about the place; and looking round him he felt
that he who broke in upon this flat tranquillity with so much as a
hint of common passions and desires, who fluttered this decorous
stillness by any coarse vehemence or unwarranted familiarity, would
be guilty of a breach of taste, for the condemnation of which no word
could be strong enough. He was given a zithern, and recognized it to be
Kashiwagi’s. After playing a few chords he said to Ochiba’s mother: ‘I
know the tone of this instrument; it is the one that Kashiwagi used, is
it not? How I wish that your daughter would play something on it. They
say that a dead man’s touch lingers in the instruments that he played,
and can be recognized even after his death.’ ‘I fear that cannot be so
in this case,’ the mother replied, ‘for after his death the strings
were removed, and those are new ones. Ochiba has played very little
lately, and is, I am sorry to say, in danger of forgetting all that her
father taught her. Suzaku, who, as you know, took a lot of trouble with
his daughters’ music, often said Ochiba was the one that showed the
greatest promise. But since all this trouble came, I fear her playing
has gone utterly to pieces....’ She begged him to play again; but he
refused, saying that if any hand could waken the echoes of Kashiwagi’s
touch, it would be that of Ochiba; and he insisted upon the zithern
being laid near her chair. But she seemed disinclined to comply with
his wish, and he did not press her.
The moon was shining out of a cloudless sky; a flight of wild geese
passed over the house, wing to wing, in faultless line. How she,
companionless, must envy that blissful troop![137] At last, moved by
the beauty of the autumn evening, with its sudden stirrings of light
wind, cool to the skin, she took up a large Chinese zithern and played
a few chords, which by their passionate intensity stirred his feelings
far more than mere words could have done. But she showed no
inclination to play in concert with him, and as it was now very late,
he made ready to depart. Just as he was leaving, the mother handed
him a flute. ‘This had been in his family for years,’ she said; ‘but
there is no use in its lying idle in this deserted house. He used to
play it as he sat in his coach, and its music blended with the cries
of his outriders. I long to hear it played so again, even in another’s
hand....’ He saw at once that it was Kashiwagi’s familiar flute, and
remembered having often heard him express the hope that it would fall
into the hands of some one who could make good use of it, and not
merely be treated as a keepsake when he was gone. Yūgiri played a
few runs upon it and then suddenly stopped. ‘You let me play on his
zithern,’ he said, ‘and encouraged by you I felt no compunction. But
somehow when it comes to playing on this flute....’ He broke off, and
Ochiba’s mother recited the poem: ‘To-night at last has the voice
of the cicada sounded as of old in the dewy bushes round my house.’
‘Though hole for hole, unaltered are the notes the flute gives forth,
what should these fingers conjure from it now, save the choked sound of
tears?’ So Yūgiri answered, and after many hesitations and delays, at
last, far on into the night, went back to his own house.
The shutters were closed and every one was asleep. Kumoi had heard the
extraordinary trouble he was taking in arranging the affairs of the
two ladies in the First Ward. It seemed to involve his coming home
very late at night; and though Kumoi distinctly heard him arrive on
this occasion, she felt in no mood for conversation, and pretended to
be asleep. ‘Why have you locked yourselves in like this?’ he cried,
when he was at last admitted. ‘I should have thought that with such a
moon as this abroad in the heavens no one would have the heart to shut
their windows.’ So saying he threw back the shutters, and rolled up the
blinds of her divan, while he himself took a seat at a point from
whence he could see the beauties of the night. ‘How any one can lie
a-bed when there are such sights to be seen, I cannot imagine,’ said
Yūgiri. ‘Do come here and look. I hate your not seeing it!’ But she was
in a bad temper, and pretended not to hear. The apartments seemed to be
littered with children, their little faces blank with the vacancy of
infant slumber, and wherever he turned were bevies of dames-in-waiting,
nurses and the like—a perfect tangle of sleeping forms. Again he
contrasted this crowded scene with the death-like mansion that he had
just left. Taking the flute out of his pocket he played a few notes.
Were they already asleep in the First Ward, or was Ochiba at any rate
thinking of him, wishing he were still in the house? Perhaps she was at
this very instant playing upon the zithern that he had placed within
her reach. Had she changed the tuning?[138] And her mother too, she
was a fine player on the Japanese zithern. So his thoughts rambled on
as he lay in bed. Why was it, he asked himself, that Kashiwagi had
seemed to take so little interest in Ochiba? Though no one could say
he had actually ill-treated her. The idea that if one possessed Ochiba
one could ever grow tired of her seemed to him preposterous. Yet he
knew that such things did happen, and indeed it was rarely enough that
any attachment subsisted unaltered through the years—his own relation
to Kumoi was the one example that occurred to him. And the result was
that by this exclusive fidelity he had spoilt her. She had grown a
trifle touchy and exacting.... At this point he fell asleep. He dreamt
that Kashiwagi appeared to him, and picking up the flute examined it
curiously. It occurred to Yūgiri even in his dream that it had been
unwise of him to play on it, for this had certainly drawn Kashiwagi’s
ghost to his side. ‘Could I, like the wind among the reed-stems,
blow where I would, then into the hands of a true heir should fall
the music of this flute.’ So the dream-figure recited; and Yūgiri was
about to question it concerning the meaning of this strange verse, when
he woke with a start. One of his children was crying. The piercing
noise went on and on. It would not take its milk, and the nurses were
scurrying about, evidently in great concern. Presently Kumoi took the
child in her own arms and sat with it near the lamp, her hair thrown
back behind her ears and her dress open in front, showing the pretty
curves and undulations of her breast. She did not attempt to feed the
child, but let it put its lips to her breasts, and by one device and
another had soon stopped its tears. Yūgiri was now standing by her
side. ‘Is there anything amiss with the child?’ he asked, and to show
his concern began scattering handfuls of rice and reciting spells of
protection; an activity which, if it did not greatly help the child,
served at least to dispel the impression of his own dream. ‘It is no
use your doing that,’ she said. ‘The boy is ill. Probably he caught
some infection when you insisted upon opening the window. You come
back like this, after amusing yourself I don’t know how or where, and
flood the house with unwholesome night air, merely that you may have
the pleasure of staring at the moon.’ But he saw from her face that
she was no longer cross, and was now only teasing him. ‘I am certainly
very much to blame,’ he said, ‘if it is true that “infections” can
only enter through doors and windows. Had any one else suggested this
I should have thought it a rather infantile view. But coming from the
mother of half a dozen children it must of course be treated with
respect.’ After that he sat silently watching her in a manner that
Kumoi found very disconcerting, and she said at last: ‘Had not you
better go to bed? I am afraid I am not dressed for show.’ She was
conscious that, sitting in the full glare of the lamp, she did not look
her best. So far from being irritated by this coquetry, Yūgiri felt
touched that she should still care so much what impression she made
upon him. The child did indeed seem to be very much indisposed. It
continued to cry at intervals all through the night, and no one in the
house got much sleep.
Yūgiri was worried about this flute. The dream seemed clearly to
indicate that it had not reached its right destination. Kashiwagi
certainly could not have wanted it to go to a woman. What good could
it be to her? And there was no man who seemed to come into question.
Recollecting his last interview with Kashiwagi, Yūgiri became more
than ever convinced that he had died with some desperate entanglement
clinging about his soul, some secret or remorse such as might for ever
hold him back from Release; and turning over in his mind what were
generally considered the best ways of dealing with such a case, he
arranged for all manner of services to be said on behalf of Kashiwagi’s
soul at Otagi[139] and at the various temples with which the dead man’s
family had been connected. He thought of dealing with the flute by
offering it as present to some Buddhist shrine; but on reflection he
saw that this would be less than civil to the lady who had just given
it to him, and he determined to consult his father upon the subject.
Genji, he was told, was with the Akashi Princess. As he was passing
through Murasaki’s apartments Yūgiri was greeted by little Niou, now
three years old. He was Murasaki’s great favourite, and perhaps the
prettiest of all the children in the palace. ‘Will you pick me up,
please,’ he said, ‘and do yourself the honour to carry me back to my
mummy?’ He still got his words mixed up, and applied to himself the
terms of respect that he heard his nurses use when they spoke of
him. ‘Come up then,’ said Yūgiri, laughing. ‘But we shall have to pass
in front of Lady Murasaki’s screen. Won’t she think that very rude?’
‘She can’t see you now,’ said Niou, covering Yūgiri’s face with his
little sleeve; and thus, guided by the child, Yūgiri arrived blindfold
at the Akashi Princess’s door. Here Kaoru was playing along with the
other Akashi children. Seeing Niou being deposited upon the threshold,
his elder brother, Ni no Miya, rushed up to Yūgiri crying: ‘Me too, a
ride!’ But Niou tried to stop Yūgiri from taking the other child in
his arms. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘he’s my uncle Yūgiri, not yours. I want
him for my own.’ ‘Behave yourselves, children,’ cried Genji, who was
standing near by. ‘Yūgiri does not belong to either of you. As a matter
of fact, he is the Emperor’s gentleman, and if His Majesty were to hear
that either of you had stolen the Colonel of his Bodyguard, he might be
very angry. As for you, Niou, you’re a little rascal. You are always
trying to get the better of your elder brother!’ ‘Ni no Miya,’ said
Yūgiri, ‘is already beginning to forgo his rights with quite an elderly
resignation. In a child of his age such unselfishness is alarming.’
Genji thought he had never seen three such charming children, and
despite the hubbub they were creating, smiled indulgently upon them
all. At last, however, he said: ‘But this is no place to receive a
visitor; let us go somewhere where we can talk more comfortably.’
So saying he led the way to his own room. But they had hard work to
escape, for the three little princes clung to them tightly and would
not leave go. It was of course quite wrong that Kaoru, the child of a
commoner, should be brought up with the Akashi Princess’s children.
But, as Genji well knew, the slightest sign on his part that he was
conscious of this impropriety would be taken by Nyosan as a reproach.
He was indeed, as has before been noted, particularly good at
guessing what effect his actions would have upon the feelings of
others; and he therefore lost no opportunity of showing that the child
ranked with him on exactly the same plane as his own grandchildren.
Yūgiri had often watched Kaoru from a distance, but had never made
friends with him. Seeing the little boy now peeping at him through a
chink in the screen, he picked up a spray of cherry-blossom that had
fallen to the floor and, holding it out, called the child to him.
Instantly he came toddling along, in his dark blue overall, that
contrasted so strongly with the even pallor of his skin. He was,
thought Yūgiri, a far handsomer child than the two Akashi boys. Was it
only his fancy—the fruit of a suspicion that had long ago formed in his
mind—or did Kaoru really bear a certain resemblance to poor Kashiwagi?
In the expression of the eyes and the way they were set (though in the
child this peculiarity was far more marked) there was something that
he could not remember to have met elsewhere. And that smile too....
Was he imagining? No. Surely Genji could not see that smile without at
once thinking of Kashiwagi. And if so, what did he make of it all? The
Akashi princes were a pair of sturdy, quite ordinary good-looking boys.
But Kaoru had about him something refined, distinguished, that would
have marked him out among a hundred other well-born children. ‘What
a terrible pity it is,’ thought Yūgiri, ‘that Tō no Chūjō, who is so
heartbroken at Kashiwagi not even leaving a child behind to continue
his name, should not know the truth about this little one—always
supposing that it is the truth....’ And despite all Tō no Chūjō’s past
hostility, Yūgiri felt a longing to give him this great pleasure;
though when he came to think how he should do so, he saw that the idea
was quite impracticable. Meanwhile, he was making friends with Kaoru,
who was not in the least shy, and they were soon having wonderful
games together.
Genji listened with a slightly ironical smile to Yūgiri’s description
of his recent visit to the First Ward, and after a few enquiries about
such parts of the story as concerned old friends and acquaintances,
he said suddenly: ‘I hope you are not behaving in such a way as to
give Princess Ochiba a false impression. I know by bitter experience
that there is a grave risk of this. No doubt you are acting entirely
out of regard for the memory of your friend; but any one who hears of
these numerous visits is likely to draw a very different conclusion.
For your own sake as well as hers you must be careful to make it
clear that you have completely disinterested motives for frequenting
the house.’ Advice on this sort of subject was, thought Yūgiri, his
father’s speciality. How high-minded were Genji’s principles, and how
unsuccessful he was in applying them! ‘So far from being censured for
my attentions to those two ladies,’ he answered, ‘I should certainly be
thought to have behaved very badly if I had not taken their affairs a
little in hand. I daresay my description of these visits might easily
give the impression that either she or I had not been very discreet.
But everything depends upon the circumstances under which things are
said or done. A remark that might be very impertinent at one moment may
be perfectly harmless at another. Much again (as I am sure you will
admit) depends upon the character and age of the people concerned.
Ochiba is no longer very young, and I am by no means given to
miscellaneous flirtations. If our relation sounds to you to be somewhat
too informal, it is because I know that she takes life seriously, and
she, that I am to be trusted.’ Hence he led on the conversation to a
point at which it was quite natural that he should recount his dream.
Genji listened without making any comment; but he perfectly well
understood the meaning[140] of the dream. ‘I know the flute of which
you speak,’ he said at last. ‘As a matter of fact it ought, properly
speaking, to be in this house, for it belonged to Murasaki’s father.
He allowed Kashiwagi to take it away one day after the Lezpideza
Concert, knowing that he was such a fine player. Of course, Ochiba’s
mother would not know anything of this; it was quite natural that she
should give it to you.’ This was a mere invention, and Genji was fairly
certain that Yūgiri recognized it as such, and all the time knew quite
well who was this mysterious ‘heir’ spoken of by Kashiwagi in the
dream. But until Yūgiri made some more definite sign of being in the
secret, Genji was not going to give himself away. Yūgiri, seeing that
his father was not at all inclined to take him into his confidence,
thought he had better postpone the attempt (long overdue) to deliver
Kashiwagi’s cryptic death-bed message. But the temptation to get the
thing over was too much for him, and he said at last, as though it were
a casual recollection: ‘Soon before Kashiwagi died he gave me various
instructions concerning the disposition of his affairs, and at the same
time charged me with some mission that was connected with his devotion
towards you; or so it seemed. But though he made several attempts to
explain the matter I never succeeded in discovering what it was, nor on
subsequent reflection have I ever been able to make out exactly what he
meant.’ He rather overdid these protestations of bewilderment, with the
result that Genji became more certain than ever of his having learnt
the whole secret. But he was still determined not to commit himself. ‘I
certainly know no reason why Kashiwagi should ever have thought that I
was cross with him,’ he said. ‘As for the dream, I will think it over
quietly and let you know how you should act. There is a saying among
old women that dreams should only be discussed by daylight!’ It
was evident that nothing was to be got out of him. But the story Yūgiri
had just told must have made some impression upon his father. What
precisely was going on in Genji’s mind, he respectfully wondered.
[132] Kashiwagi’s widow (Princess Ochiba) and her mother.
[133] A bitter root.
[134] _Tokoro_ also means ‘place, destination.’ ‘Seek out the same
_Tokoro_ as I have done,’ i.e. leave the City and take refuge in a
mountain retreat.
[135] The little daughter of the Akashi Princess.
[136] ‘Though Spring comes back each year and fresh flowers bloom, we
shall be there to see them only so long as Fate gives us leave.’
[137] The male and female wild goose were supposed to fly wing
interlocked with wing.
[138] In sign of dislike for him.
[139] Where Kashiwagi had presumably been buried.
[140] That the flute should be given to Kashiwagi’s son Kaoru.
CHAPTER X
YŪGIRI
So high was Yūgiri’s reputation for prudence and fidelity that his
constant visits to the First Ward gave rise to no scandal whatever,
and were merely regarded as a touching proof of his attachment to
Kashiwagi’s memory. And hitherto his behaviour had indeed been beyond
reproach; but down underneath his thoughts was a feeling that things
would not always go on like this. Ochiba’s mother was at a loss how to
thank the young man for his extraordinary kindness. She was now less
and less able to distract herself, and his continual letters and visits
were her chief source of pleasure. In his relation towards, Ochiba
there had at the beginning been nothing of gallantry or sentiment, and
this had become so much a matter of habit that a sudden change on his
part would, for both of them, have been very embarrassing. But sooner
or later circumstances would surely arise such as would put their
friendship naturally and imperceptibly on to a less formal footing.
Such circumstances certainly did occur; but watching Ochiba closely he
was obliged to confess that she seemed singularly unwilling to avail
herself of them. Tired of these experiments, he was just beginning
to think it would be better to tell her straight out that he was in
love with her, and see how she took it, when the mother fell seriously
ill and was moved away from the City to her estate on the hills. Her
former chaplain, a man of great sanctity, who had frequently been
successful in exorcising demonic seizures and possessions, was now
living in the hills, under a strict vow never to leave the village. But
fortunately his place of retreat was quite near to her estate,
and it was with a view to securing his services that she now left
the City. The outriders and the carriage in which she travelled were
supplied by Yūgiri. It might have been supposed that this would offend
Ochiba’s brothers-in-law, whose business it clearly was to supply such
assistance. But as a matter of fact they were fully occupied with
their own affairs, and it never even occurred to them to offer their
services. The only one that took any personal interest in Ochiba was
Kōbai, but he had always found her so discouraging that in the end he
gave up going to the house.
There seemed to be no end to Yūgiri’s thoughtfulness. When he heard
that services of intercession were being held at the old lady’s
bedside, he sent alms for the priests and new vestments. The letter
of thanks was written by Ochiba herself, for the mother was too ill
to write, and every one agreed that it would be uncivil to send a
letter dictated to an ordinary amanuensis. The handwriting pleased him
uncommonly, and so agreeable was it to receive such a letter, even
though the writer was merely transmitting another’s sentiments, that
he wrote to Ochiba’s mother even more often than before, in the hope
of receiving similar replies. He longed, of course, to visit them in
their country home; but he knew that Kumoi would regard this as a
confirmation of her worst suspicions, and he decided, for the present
at any rate, that it would be a mistake to go.
But as the autumn drew on he longed more and more to find out how
things were going. Moreover, he knew that on the hills the leaves would
be changing, and he had a burning desire to get out into the country.
The excuse he made was that the old chaplain, who seldom left his
solitary and unapproachable retreat, had consented to visit his former
patron. ‘There are various points about which I should like to consult
him,’ said Yūgiri. ‘Such an opportunity may never occur again,
and I shall be able at the same time to find out how Ochiba’s mother
is really getting on.’ He made the journey with only a few outriders
and half a dozen personal servants, all clad in hunting-dress. The
place lay only a little way into the hills; but the colours of Oyama,
near Matsugasaki, though doubtless not to be compared with the wild
and rocky country farther on, excited him far more than the cunningly
contrived autumn effects of the great palace gardens at home. The
house was surrounded merely by a low brushwood fence, but looked
very trim and neat. Inside, though all the arrangements were of a
temporary nature, there was everything that the most exacting taste
could require. The altar of intercession had been put up in a side-wing
opening out of the main hall. The sick woman herself was at the back of
the house, and her daughter occupied the western side. It was thought
that the malady might be catching, and Ochiba had been advised to stay
in the City. But nothing would induce her to do so, and the utmost
precaution she would take was to remain at the other end of the house.
There were no guest-rooms, and Yūgiri was brought straight to Ochiba’s
quarters. From here he conducted the usual interchange of messages with
the old princess. Ochiba was certainly at the far end of the room, for
from behind the curtains of her dais (which having been put up hastily
on her arrival was a very flimsy affair) he heard the soft rustling
of a skirt, and caught the outline of a form that could only be hers.
His heart beat wildly; but the business of communicating with the sick
woman was a very slow one, as she was at the far end of the house,
and in the intervals, while the messengers were going to and fro, he
fell into conversation with one of the old princess’s gentlewomen.
‘Considering it is now more than a year since I took your mistress’s
affairs in hand,’ he said, ‘it is extraordinary that Ochiba should
still affect to treat me as a complete stranger. She must have heard me
arrive; yet she does not send a word of greeting. I have never known
such a thing before. It is the height of absurdity in my case; and
people who know the sort of man I am must really find it hard not to
laugh in her face. Just think of it, a steady-going married man of my
age, who even when he was younger certainly displayed little of the
wildness of youth! How do you explain her attitude?’ The lady was in
any case at no loss to explain Yūgiri’s present indignation. She went
and urged Ochiba to show a little more hospitality; but the princess
replied: ‘I was obliged to write to him occasionally on my mother’s
behalf. But he must not take this as a sign on my part that I desire
to correspond with him. At the present moment I am far too much taken
up with my mother’s illness to want to see anybody.’ ‘This is all very
senseless,’ he replied, when these words were reported to him. ‘She is
obviously fretting so much over her mother’s illness that she will soon
destroy her own health. If you don’t mind my saying so, I think your
mistress’s illness has been largely caused by the distressing spectacle
of Ochiba’s persistent brooding. I believe that if she could rouse
herself a little, it would have an extraordinary effect on her mother,
and be the best thing for Lady Ochiba herself. This pretence that my
relations are solely with her mother is very tiresome.’ To this every
one agreed.
Towards sunset a heavy mist began to rise and the hill at the foot of
which the house stood now hung above it in dark, featureless bulk;
from among the child-flowers growing along the hedge (their colour
subdued to a strange greyness by the mist) came unabated the ceaseless
murmuring of insects; while from among the wild and tangled plantations
sounded, cold and clear, the noise of running water. From time to time
a melancholy gust of dank wind swept the hills above, shaking
the deep woods; and at intervals there sounded the booming of the
gong which marked the close of one service and at the same time the
beginning of the next—the new voices striking in almost before the
closing notes had died away. Though these sounds and the whole aspect
of the place were of a nature to subdue the rovings of an idle fancy,
they served but to heighten the passion that was mounting in Yūgiri’s
breast. The noise of spells and chanting rose more and more insistent
from the sick woman’s apartments. A rumour spread that she was sinking,
and every one trooped off in that direction. A better opportunity to
declare his feelings could not, thought Yūgiri, possibly have arisen.
The house was now completely shut in by mist. ‘It is no use my starting
at present,’ he said, ‘I should never be able to find my way back.’ And
he sent her the poem: ‘Lovelier in their coat of mist, the hills shut
out for me the pathway of escape.’ ‘To hide our country hedge this mist
arose; not to detain the idle-hearted guest.’ So she answered. That she
should reply at all was unusual, and the mere fact that she had done
so put out of his head any notion of returning to the City that night.
‘But in sober truth,’ he said, ‘I cannot possibly find my way back. And
you will not let me stay here. What do you expect me to do?’ Hitherto
his indiscreet speeches had always been of such a nature that it was
possible to ignore them. But she considered this plea impertinent, and
was so much vexed that she refused to continue the discussion. He was
all the more disappointed because he realized that such an opportunity
might never occur again. He hated her to feel that he was taking
advantage of her loneliness; but it could do her no harm to hear once
and for all from his lips exactly what were his emotions towards her.
He sent for one of his gentlemen who served under him in the Guard
and in whom he had complete confidence. ‘I cannot go away until
I have seen the chaplain,’ he said. ‘Hitherto he has not for a moment
left the princess’s side; but I imagine that he will soon be taking a
rest. I shall stay here and try to get a word with him when the night
service is over. I wish you and the other officers to stay where you
are. But send some of the men to my farm at Kurusuno, which is not far
from here, I think. They will be able to get together some fodder for
the horses. And there must be no talking among those of you who remain
here. If your voices are heard, people will know I have stayed here for
the night, and spread a false impression of my object in coming.’ ‘It
is useless for me to think of returning,’ he then said to Ochiba in an
off-hand manner, ‘and I may as well wait here as anywhere else. I hope
this will not disturb you. When the chaplain leaves your mother’s room,
I shall join him.’ Never before had he behaved in this impertinent
manner. The only effective answer to his insolence would have been to
seek shelter in her mother’s rooms. But such a course seemed under
the circumstances too extreme, and she sat motionless in her chair,
wondering what would come next. Nor had she long to wait. For a few
minutes afterwards a gentlewoman came with a message, and Yūgiri, upon
some excuse or other, accompanied her behind the curtains. The fog
was now so thick, even inside the house, that despite the lamp it was
almost dark. In sudden terror she made for a sliding door at the back
of the room. Dark though it was, he darted unerringly upon her tracks,
and was just in time to seize the train of her dress before she closed
the door. She shook herself free; but there was no bolt or catch on her
side, and holding the door to, she stood trembling like water. ‘Is it
really so very shocking that I should venture behind your curtains?’
he asked. ‘I may not be of much importance in your eyes, but I have
known you for some while, and rendered you, perhaps, a few small
services.’ He now spoke calmly and reasonably of his feelings towards
her; but she could only think of his impertinent behaviour in securing
this interview, and in her indignation at his intrusion she was
scarcely conscious of what were the sentiments that he was patiently
labouring to express. ‘If to feel as I do,’ he continued, ‘is an
offence, then I have indeed merited your displeasure. But do not for a
moment fear that I could possibly be guilty of any other misdemeanour.
I am here to speak, and only to speak. Surely I have the right to tell
you of thoughts that, unexpressed, would by their violence soon shatter
my heart to dust. I have tried again and again to let you know in other
ways of the torment I was enduring, but you would not listen to me. Is
it so surprising that I should have seized this kindly opportunity? Do
not, however, think me worse than I am. Provoke me as you may, I swear
to you that I will do no more than frame in words the turmoil that I
can no longer lock up unuttered in my breast.’ She was still holding
the door, but it was clear that he could easily open it if he chose;
and he made no attempt to do so. ‘Might you not save yourself this
trouble?’ he asked at last, with a laugh that somehow convinced her
he meant no further harm. Her hand fell; he pushed back the door and
entered. ‘I do not think you know what I am enduring for your sake,’ he
said presently. ‘I am beginning to think that, though you were a wife,
you do not understand even the rudiments of love.’
To this and many other remarks that he had made she could think of
no reply. He had indeed charged her before with not ‘understanding’
love; but so far as it meant anything at all the phrase seemed to
imply merely a readiness to yield oneself at demand, irrespective
of one’s own principles or inclinations. ‘You are quite wrong,’
she said between her tears. ‘I know a good deal more than you
suppose—enough to be sure that such cruelty as you have displayed
to-night has little indeed to do with love.’
He tried to lead her into the moonlight, for a great wind was now
blowing, and the mist had cleared away. But she still held aloof.
‘Surely I have proved to you by now that I mean no harm,’ he said
earnestly. ‘Trust me, and you will find that I do nothing without your
leave. Come ...’ and he drew her to him. It was now nearing dawn. The
moon was shining out of a cloudless sky, its light penetrating even
the last hovering remnants of the mist. They were sitting on an open
verandah, so shallow that the moon seemed to thrust its face into
theirs. He began to talk about Kashiwagi, and she now joined in the
conversation quite calmly and happily.
He could not, however, forbear from reproaching her for showing
more tenderness to the memory of Kashiwagi, who neglected her, than
kindness to himself, who offered her an unbounded admiration. She
did not reply, but silently reflected that though there was not much
to recommend Kashiwagi either in rank or birth, he was at least a
legitimate husband, approved both by her father and his, and able to
give her the place that was her due. If even an alliance that seemed so
certain of success had failed thus disastrously, what could she expect
from an intrigue that would be carried on in the teeth of endless
opposition and obstruction? It was not as if Kumoi were a stranger;
she was Kashiwagi’s sister, and Ochiba had made great friends with
her. And Tō no Chūjō, too! What would he think of it all? Wherever her
thoughts turned, they fell upon some person near and dear to her whom
the news of this liaison would profoundly shock and offend. And if she
herself, who alone knew that, despite appearances, her conduct had been
irreproachable—if she herself were already so much horrified what
would be the view of those whose ignorance left them free to make the
blackest conjectures? Nor was it any consolation that, for the moment,
her mother knew nothing of what was going on. For she would certainly
find out in the end, and the fact that it had been kept from her would
give the affair in her eyes an even more guilty turn.
Ochiba’s mother, though she showed no real signs of recovery, was on
certain days perfectly conscious and rational. On one such occasion,
when the Daily Intercession was over, the chaplain remained behind and
sat by the bed reading incantations. He felt extremely gratified at the
patient’s improvement. ‘The vows of the Great Sun Buddha[141] were not
made in vain,’ he said. ‘I knew well enough that the spells we have
worked at so hard could not fail to have their effect. The evil spirit
that possesses you has fought well; but it is, after all, a frail
wretched thing, shackled with such a load of sin as will never let it
prevail against weapons of holiness.’ In mentioning the evil spirit he
spoke in a stem and angry voice. Then, with a curtness that is often
assumed by men of uncompromising piety, he suddenly asked: ‘How long
has your daughter been going with Yūgiri?’ ‘I don’t know what you are
talking about,’ said the old lady indignantly. ‘He was a great friend
of Kashiwagi’s, and in memory of their friendship has helped us in one
way or another from time to time. I hear he has been here constantly to
enquire after me during my illness, and I am sure it is very kind of
him....’ ‘This is all quite unnecessary,’ broke in the priest. ‘There
is no question of concealing the matter from me. This morning as I was
going to early service I distinctly saw an extremely handsome young man
go out at the door of the Western Wing. There was a good deal of mist
about, and I should not myself have recognized him. But I heard my
servitors saying to one another: “There goes Prince Yūgiri. The same
business as before. When his carriage came he sent it away, and settled
in for the night!” As a matter of fact I should have guessed for myself
who it was by the smell he left behind him. It made my head ache. But
that young man has always used too much scent.
‘This will never do. You must not think I am prejudiced against him. On
the contrary, I have been under obligations to his family for a long
while. His grandmother always made use of me when she required prayers
to be said on his behalf, and since she died he has frequently sent
for me himself. But I am not going to countenance an intrigue of this
kind. His wife, Lady Kumoi, is not a person with whom it is safe to
trifle. What important office of state is there now which one or the
other of her relatives does not hold? Moreover, she has borne him eight
(or is it nine?) children. You surely do not imagine that your daughter
is going to oust her from her place? There will be endless jealousies
and bickerings, leading at last to just such shameless and frenzied
passions as all too commonly prove to be a woman’s undoing, when it is
her fate at last to enter into the Long Darkness. And even though your
daughter herself may give way to no violent feelings, the jealousy that
her situation arouses in this young man’s wife will in the end prey
equally on Lady Ochiba’s soul, and gravely endanger her salvation. In a
word, this must stop at once. I insist upon it.’
He became more and more excited and violent in his denunciation of the
supposed intrigue, and it was only with difficulty that the old lady at
last obtained his attention. ‘I was absolutely unaware that anything
of the kind was taking place,’ she said. ‘There was one occasion when
my people told me he had been unwell and was resting here so that
he might visit me next day. Perhaps that is what has given rise to
these rumours. He has always been so serious-minded, so reliable, that
I really cannot think....’ But she had as a matter of fact noticed
one or two queer things, and though Yūgiri was so punctilious, so
scrupulously careful to avoid anything that might give rise to gossip,
so deferential and courtly in his treatment of women, she yet could
imagine from various small indications that, left to himself, with no
strange eye upon him to criticize or make note, he might quite well
have taken the most unwarranted liberties. And for the last few weeks
Ochiba’s part of the house had been almost deserted. However, there
was one person who must certainly know the truth about the matter: she
sent for the maid Koshōshō, who was reluctantly obliged to tell all she
knew. ‘I was given to understand, Madam,’ she said, ‘that Prince Yūgiri
merely desired to unburden his heart upon some question that has been
occupying him since the end of last year. He left before dawn, and I
can answer for it that nothing of any consequence took place. I don’t
know what can have put this idea into people’s heads.’ She was racking
her brain to think who had been the tale-bearer. It never occurred to
her that the chaplain might have played this part.
The old lady was extremely upset by these revelations, and began to
weep so bitterly that Koshōshō wished a thousand times that she had
not been so simple as to tell the truth. She now tried to repair her
error by putting the matter in as good a light as possible. ‘But,
Madam, there was a screen between them....’ ‘But, Madam, they were
not together more than a moment,’ and so on. ‘What difference does
that make?’ groaned Ochiba’s mother. ‘No girl with any common sense or
decency would have received him at all. Maybe they did no harm together
at all. But that’s not the way the story will be told among the
priests here, nor in the kitchens and sculleries either. If only
there were some way of explaining to people what really happened! But
unfortunately no one in this house can be trusted to do anything....’
So she gasped, being now seized upon by a fresh paroxysm of pain.
Very reluctantly Yūgiri decided to spend the next night at home. An
immediate repetition of his visit would only serve to strengthen
any suspicion that might have been aroused on this last disastrous
occasion. Irritable as he had been for months past, he was now a
thousand times more restless and gloomy. Kumoi knew, or at any rate
could very well conjecture, where he had spent the night. But she did
not allude to the matter, and disguised her chagrin by taking part
in the games of her children. Late in the evening came a note from
Ochiba’s mother. It was written in so shaky a hand that he found it
hard to read, and was obliged to hold it close to the great lamp.
Though Kumoi was behind her curtains-of-state, she instantly became
aware of what he was doing, and slipping up behind him, took the letter
out of his hand. ‘What are you doing?’ he cried, starting violently.
‘That is not the way to behave. As a matter of fact, this letter is
of no interest. It is from her ladyship in the Eastern Wing.[142] She
was not very well this morning, and after my audience[143] I ought
to have called upon her. But being pressed for time I sent a note to
enquire how she was. You can see for yourself that it does not look
much like a love-letter! You really must not grab at things in that
fashion. You are allowing your rudeness to go further and further
every day. You might at least behave properly when there are people
in the room.’ ‘If any one is going “further and further every day” at
the present moment, it is surely you,’ was all she answered. But
she forced herself to speak lightly, hoping at all costs to dispel his
present grimness. He laughed. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said. ‘But
have you really anything to complain of? Every one must be allowed an
occasional distraction; and surely there is not another man in the
world who has used this right so sparingly as I. The fidelity of a
husband who seemed incapable of venturing one step further afield would
in the long run become a very slight satisfaction to you. Indeed, you
lose by my particularity. For surely the position of a woman who stands
first among many rivals is far more distinguished than that of one
who stands alone? Moreover, the affection of the husband is far more
likely to be permanent if he is allowed a certain amount of variety and
diversion. You would not set much store by my admiration, if it merely
meant I were too dull to see the beauty of other women.’ He hoped thus
to divert her attention and quietly regain possession of the letter.
But she laughed at him outright, and presently said: ‘You have made
these kind provisions for my happiness at a time when I am too old to
profit by them. Perhaps if I had more experience in that direction,
your present preoccupation would not depress me so much as it does.
If ever before I had received unkindness at your hands....’[144] The
allusion was apt; but he would not accept it. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘to hint
at “dereliction” is absurd. You must have been hearing stories that
are utterly untrue. It is strange; but some of your people have never
lost the spite they felt against me at the beginning—you remember—when
I was in the Sixth Rank, and they thought I was not good enough for
you. I am sure that now they have been trying to turn you against me by
some lie or other. It is too bad. I feel it on Ochiba’s account as
much as my own.’ But though Kumoi had probably heard things which were,
at the moment, still untrue, the hope he felt that they would soon be
true prevented him from protesting very effectively. He discovered that
Kumoi’s old nurse had indeed been speaking to her very bitterly about
him; but he let the matter pass and did not attempt to justify himself.
As regards the letter, it would have been very unwise to show too much
interest in it, and he went to bed without attempting to get it back.
But it was very worrying not to know what it contained. He managed
unobtrusively, under some pretext or other, to get up and look for it
under the couch where she had been lying; but nothing was there. Having
passed a troubled night, he lay in bed late into the morning, and it
was only when Kumoi was called away to look after the children that,
under cover of dressing and so on, he set to work upon a fresh search.
Kumoi, on her side, seeing that he did not press her for the return
of the letter, concluded that it was indeed of the dull nature he had
described, and even forgot that she had taken it. All the morning she
was busily occupied in making dolls, giving first writing-lessons, and
romping with high-spirited babies, so that it was small wonder if the
matter never entered her head. But Yūgiri was still thinking of nothing
else. It had now become imperative that he should send an answer. But
if it was apparent by his reply that he had not got the letter with him
(and he had really only managed to make out a few words here and there)
the old lady would at once suspect that he had left it lying about.
Breakfast was followed by a quiet morning. Suddenly Yūgiri said:
‘What happened to that letter you took from me yesterday? You saw I
had scarcely read it; I wonder you did not give it back to me. I feel
rather tired to-day and though I ought really to visit her,[145]
I do not think I shall even call upon my father. The least I can do is
to write her a note. What did she say?’ He managed to pass this off
so well that she felt she had behaved ridiculously over the letter,
and said (keeping up her end as best she could): ‘You have a very
good excuse. You can say you caught cold when exposing yourself to
the mountain air the other night.’ ‘I did think we had heard the last
of that business,’ he answered. ‘I wonder you are not ashamed to talk
of me as though I were a vulgar pleasure-seeker. Your waiting-women,
among whom my rigid domesticity has long been a standing joke, would
be excessively amused if they could hear the line you are now taking.’
Then, breaking off he suddenly exclaimed: ‘Well, any way, where is that
letter?’ She promised to find it, but did not immediately do so; and
after a little further talk, he went to take a rest, for it was already
growing dark. He was soon disturbed by the din of the crickets in the
garden outside. This set him thinking of how noisily they had cried on
that mist-bound evening at Ono.[146] He must not let another day go by
without answering. He got up quickly and began grinding his ink. Surely
there must be some way of framing a reply so that she would not realize
he had not kept her letter? As he sat pondering, he felt a slight
unevenness in the cushion under him, and pulling it up to see what was
amiss, to his delight and also, as it proved, to his embarrassment, he
discovered the missing letter. For it was no less committal than in his
most gloomy forebodings he had imagined it. ‘Your last letter,’ she
wrote, ‘came at a time when my daughter was visiting my bedside, and
was brought to her here. As she seemed at a loss how to reply, I
am now writing in her stead: “Full clearly have you shown that in your
eyes a place for one night’s dallying is the moorside where droops the
Lady-flower.”’
‘One night.’ It was quite clear what the writer meant to imply. And
what must be the conclusion that she had drawn from his protracted
silence! It was obvious to him on a second inspection of the letter
that it had been written in great distress of mind. He could not help
feeling somewhat bitterly against Kumoi, whose foolish trick had
inflicted such suspense. But after all, a year or two ago she would
never have dreamt of doing such a thing. It was his own changed conduct
that had altered hers. He thought for a moment of going straight to
Ono. But he felt certain Ochiba would not receive him, even though her
mother countenanced his visit. As a matter of fact, it was hopeless
in any case; for to-day was his Black Day.[147] Perhaps it was a
good thing that circumstances thus conspired against him, he thought
virtuously, and hastened to answer the letter. ‘The sight of your
letter delighted me in more ways than one,’ he wrote. ‘But the hint of
reproof which it contains is rather mysterious. What is it that people
have been telling you? “In truth, I lay amid the thickets of the autumn
heath; yet by no dalliance of pillowing leaves was my rest comforted.”
I do not in general think there is much sense in replying to such
reproofs; but on this occasion I must protest that you have jumped to
conclusions somewhat too rapidly....’
There was a separate letter for Ochiba, and both were given to Tayū,
the principal retainer who had been with him on his last visit to Ono,
the man being instructed to use the swiftest horse in the stable, with
a light Chinese relay-saddle. ‘Say that I have been detained at my
father’s palace,’ he whispered, ‘and have only just returned.’
Meanwhile things at Ono were not going well. Rather recklessly, as
she felt, Ochiba’s mother had taken matters into her own hands and
protested against Yūgiri’s light-minded and casual escapade. And now it
was clear that she had offended him. Hour after hour went by; it grew
quite dark and still no answer came. This so much upset her that her
apparent convalescence was soon a thing of the past, and before the end
of the day her condition was as serious as ever. Ochiba, on the other
hand, so far from being perturbed by his failure to reappear, regretted
nothing save that she had not been a little curter with him on that one
occasion. Seeing her mother’s distress, she attributed it to horror at
the things which were supposed to have taken place on that unfortunate
night; and she began trying to explain how little had really happened.
But the subject was not easy to talk about. Confusion overcame her, and
she left off in the middle. Seeing the girl’s embarrassment, her mother
was doubly distressed: ‘Poor creature!’ she thought. ‘Has any one of
similar talents and position ever been so consistently unfortunate?’ At
last she said rather bitterly: ‘I am going to be disagreeable—a thing
which I thought I had long ago done for the last time. It may not have
been your fault.... But really, from what I hear, it seems as though
your behaviour had been incredibly childish. This particular matter
is at an end; for it is clear that he does not mean to come near us
again. But do, I beg you, be on your guard about this sort of thing in
future. I am sure I have taken immense pains with your upbringing. And
after all, with regard to affairs of that kind, you are not without
experience.... Perhaps it was foolish of me, but I assure you this,
of all ways, is not the one in which I thought you would get into
trouble. A little firmness, good sense, decision—nothing more was
required. I see that you are far indeed from being capable of looking
after yourself, and it perturbs me beyond measure to think that I must
leave you so soon. Even among commoners there is a feeling—at any rate
among the better sort of people—that flippancy does not become a widow;
still less should any one of your rank dream of allowing admirers
to go in and out in that fashion. I am very sorry your married life
brought you so little happiness. You know that the choice always seemed
to me singularly inappropriate; but your father, the ex-Emperor, and
Kashiwagi’s father pressed me so hard that in the end I came over to
their side, convinced for the moment that this quite unnecessary match
was pre-ordained by Fate. It turned out to be a terrible misfortune,
the results of which you will feel all your life. But you had at any
rate the satisfaction of knowing that you yourself were in no way to
blame, and could reproach Heaven without fear of retort. Such feelings
you can no longer entertain; but if you could manage to take no notice
of all the unpleasant things that were being said around you, I suppose
you might find considerable solace in relations with this young man—if
he made a practice of coming here, which I am certain he has not the
least intention of doing!’
To this cruelly faithful picture of her predicament she could find no
reply. She now sat gently sobbing. Her mother, watching her intently,
was moved this time by a sudden outburst of affectionate admiration.
‘How handsome you are!’ she said. ‘There is no one like you. What kink
is it in your Fate that made such beauty the rallying point of every
imaginable check and disappointment?’ Her agitation soon reduced her
to a state in which she fell an easy prey to the next onslaught of the
‘possession’ that had for long past been assailing her. In a moment she
had lost consciousness, and an icy coldness had settled upon her
limbs. The chaplains hastily assembled and with frantic supplications
sought to revive her. They were all holy men, drawn from inaccessible
mountain temples, which they had vowed never to leave till death. The
entreaties of Ochiba and her friends had induced them to break their
vows; and if they should now pull down their altars and return to their
cells defeated, surely (they protested to Buddha) the Faith would
suffer a grave discredit.
It was at this moment that Yūgiri’s letter arrived. The sick woman
was able, in a fleeting interval of consciousness, to comprehend that
Yūgiri made no suggestion of repeating his visit. All, then, was as
bad as she had feared. He had on this occasion merely been heartlessly
amusing himself. ‘And,’ remembered Ochiba’s mother—it was her last
conscious thought—‘whatever scandal is talked about this at Court will
as likely as not be founded on my own letter.’[148]
Her people were slow to realize that the end had come. She had often
before suffered from seizures during which life appeared to be extinct.
But now the usual spells had no effect, and at last it was apparent
that all was over.
The ninth month had come. Storms were raging in the hills. Not a leaf
on any tree; the whole country wore its most desolate air; and Ochiba,
sensitive to the changing aspects of nature, was in a more wretched
state than ever before. So gloomy indeed were her thoughts that she
longed continually for death to terminate the terrible monotony of her
lonely existence. True, Yūgiri wrote almost every day. His enquiries
and the presents he sent gave great satisfaction to the resident
priests, whose long seclusion made such distractions exceedingly
welcome. But Ochiba, though he sent the most solicitous messages, and
sometimes long notes in which he enquired after every item of her
health with the utmost concern, gave no sign of gratification. This was
the man, she reasoned, whose heartlessness had preyed upon her mother’s
mind so that she had died unquietly and carried with her to the grave
a burden that would endanger her salvation.[149] It nowadays sufficed
merely for his name to be mentioned, and Ochiba’s tears would break out
afresh. Her people did their best to assist Yūgiri’s cause, and when
he failed even to obtain a single line in reply he at first attributed
this to the mental confusion caused by her mother’s death. But as time
went by it was apparent that there must be some other cause for what
he regarded as her crudely insulting conduct. Had he written letters
in which her loss was ignored, letters devoted to the pageants and
frivolities of the day, he could have understood her irritation. But he
was conscious of having shown the tenderest sympathy, the most delicate
appreciation of all she must be feeling. He remembered how when his
grandmother had died he had been for a time very much dispirited; more
so, he thought, than his uncle Tō no Chūjō, who had taken the death
of his mother very much as a matter of course, and while anxious to
do everything that the public would think proper, obviously regarded
the whole business as a tiresome waste of time. Even Genji, who was
only a son-in-law, had shown much more concern. Among Yūgiri’s own
contemporaries, the one, strangely enough, who most entered into his
feelings was the quiet, almost stolid Kashiwagi. How glad he had been
to see him during those days, and how precious his sympathy had been!
And it seemed to Yūgiri exceedingly odd that Ochiba showed no desire
for similar consolation.
Kumoi still remained in the same uncertainty as to what was going
on. The frequent letters to Ono were all supposed to be connected
with Ochiba’s recent loss. But the death of this excellent lady
was not in itself sufficient to account for Yūgiri’s listlessness
and preoccupation. One evening when he lay on his couch, gazing at
the evening sky, she sent one of the children to him with a scrap of
paper on which was written: ‘Gladly would I console you did I but know
whether for the dead you mourn, or for the living thus consume your
heart.’ He smiled. Why (he asked himself) did it please her to give him
this loophole? She knew well enough that, greatly though he had liked
the old princess, her death could not conceivably weigh much in his
mind after all these months. Swiftly and negligently he dashed off the
reply: ‘Nor this, nor that. Who grieves that one particular dewdrop
vanishes into the morning air?’ This was all very well; but putting
aside general considerations as to the fate of dewdrops, it was evident
that he had no intention of taking her into his confidence; and Kumoi
was very unhappy.
Yūgiri had thought of waiting till the period of mourning was over
before he attempted another visit to Ono. But he found himself unable
to hold out so long, and reasoning that, so far as her reputation was
concerned, no more harm could happen than had been done already, he was
determined not to abandon the quest till his full purpose was achieved.
Kumoi might think what she pleased. And however little encouragement
he received from Ochiba herself, that phrase about ‘one night only’ in
her mother’s letter gave his renewed attentions a sort of sanction,
and would in the last resort make it difficult for her to dismiss him
altogether.
It was about the middle of the ninth month. The grandeur of the scenes
through which Yūgiri passed was such as could not have failed to awe
the dullest, the most unimpressionable visitor. His way lay through
forests in which not merely every leaf, but every bough had been caught
by the tempest and hurried earthwards, to toss amid the whirling
wreckage from the heights above. As he approached the house, the noise
of distant chanting mingled with the clamour of the storm. Close under
the fence a group of deer was sheltering from the blasts of the storm,
their hoofs pressing upon the brown rice-stalks; nor did even the harsh
tones of the bird-clapper[150] drive them from their refuge. They stood
together, crying with a pitiful air. The noise of the torrent startled
Yūgiri from his thoughts, bursting upon his ear with its thunderous
clang. Only the crickets, their arbours laid low by the storm, were
strangely quiet. But one flower, the blue Dragon’s Gall, was now
rewarded for its long patience, and shining out all dewy amid the dead
grass, triumphed at last in its desolate supremacy.
In all this there was nothing out of the ordinary; but given the nature
and circumstances of his visit, these commonplaces of the autumn
landscape moved him to an almost unendurable sadness.
Remembering Shōshō no Kimi’s gay laugh and handsome face, he felt that
to be with her for a little might help to drive away this intolerable
depression, and it was for her that he sent when he arrived at the
usual western door.
‘Closer,’ he said. ‘If I am obliged to raise my voice we may be
overheard, and I want to talk with you seriously. Surely you count
it to my credit that I have made my way through the hills at such a
season.’ He glanced towards the mountain. ‘And now the mist is rising,’
he said. ‘Look how thick....’ ‘Closer, closer,’ he whispered. She
pressed forward the curtain behind which she sat, till it obtruded a
little way beyond the edge of the reed-blind. She kept pulling her
skirts to one side. This Shōshō no Kimi was a sister of the Governor
of Yamato, and consequently a cousin of Ochiba, with whom she had
been brought up on terms of complete equality. She was therefore
wearing the deepest mourning.
‘I am sure it is natural enough that Lady Ochiba should be very much
upset,’ said Yūgiri at last, ‘but I still do not understand why this
should involve such persistent rudeness to _me_. I am exasperated
to the verge of madness by her refusal to grant me a single word of
reply. My mind is going to pieces altogether; every one notices it.’
So he went on, and presently mentioned the old princess’s last letter,
breaking into tears as he did so. ‘Your slowness in replying,’ said
Shōshō no Kimi, weeping even more bitterly than he, ‘seemed to have
a disastrous effect upon her. She had been much stronger lately; but
that one day’s suspense undid all the good work. The evil influences
that had before possessed her saw their opportunity and were quick to
use it. She was in a bad way on one or two occasions at the time of
her son-in-law’s death, and we sometimes thought it was all over with
her. But she had only to remember Lady Ochiba’s need, and she would
at once make an effort to recover herself. I wish indeed we had some
one like her to comfort my cousin Ochiba. She’s in such a state she
hardly seems to know her own name, and so it goes on from one day’s
end to another.’ So, amid her sobs, she somewhat inconsequently sought
to explain Ochiba’s silence. ‘That’s all very well,’ he said, ‘but it
leaves me as puzzled as ever by her mystifications. I am, I hope I
may say without rudeness, the one person who can be of use to her at
present. Her father[151] is buried away in the clouds on some distant
mountain peak, and if he ever gives a thought to family affairs, he is
too far off to be of any practical assistance. There is no reason why
you yourself should not remonstrate with her when you get the chance.
It is really turning into a kind of obstinacy. However, it will
all come right in the end. She feels at present that she will never
want to return into society; but people do not remain in that state of
mind indefinitely. Nor do things happen as one plans....’ But Shōshō no
Kimi gave him no help, and to his repeated messages Ochiba sent only
the reply that upon some future occasion, when feeling less dazed by
her loss, she would attempt to thank him for his repeated visits.
Back in his palace, he mooned about in so vague and distracted a
manner, that the ladies of the household said to one another in shocked
tones: ‘What a wretched sight the man is! And the last person too
whom one would have expected to see in this state.’ As for Kumoi,
he remembered how often he had praised in her hearing the pleasant
relations that prevailed between the members of Genji’s household. If
she showed any signs of resentment at his interest in Ochiba, he would
at once think her a most disagreeable, ungenerous creature. She too,
Kumoi felt, could have endured rivals well enough if she had been used
to them and if those around her had learned to take them as a matter of
course. But from the very beginning her father, her brothers—every one
had quoted Yūgiri as an unparalleled example of single-minded devotion;
and that even this prodigy of steadfastness should grow tired of her
was a humiliation indeed.
So they lay till it was almost dawn, neither heeding the other or
showing the least disposition to make friends; and long before the
mists had cleared he irritated Kumoi by getting up and writing his
usual letter to Ono. This time, however, she played no trick upon him.
He wrote at considerable length, and then pushing the letter away
from him, began humming a poem to himself. He did this very softly;
but Kumoi heard the words: ‘No message will you send me save that no
message you will send till an unending night its dreams shall
end?’ “The Silent Waterfall[152] that from Mount Ono drops ...” she
thought she heard him quote.
The answer came later in the morning. It was a solid-looking epistle,
written on stout, brownish paper; and as usual the writer was Shōshō
no Kimi. Kumoi watched his face while he read it. Had Princess Ochiba
at last broken her silence? As a matter of fact the letter contained
nothing but remonstrations from Shōshō upon the uselessness of his
continuing to write. ‘To prove my point,’ she said, ‘I enclose your
last letter to her, just as it was when I rescued it.’ And here was
his letter indeed, torn in pieces and covered all over with random
scribblings. His first feeling, however, was not so much of pique at
the use to which it had been put, as of delight that she had seen and
handled it. Piecing together the fragments, he thought he could make
out a poem somewhat in this style: ‘Ceaseless as the waters of Mount
Ono, day and night my silent tears flow.’ It was only the old Ono poem
twisted a little to suit her own plight; but there were points of
interest in the penmanship.
How often had Yūgiri watched other men falling into the helpless state
in which he now found himself! There had always seemed to him something
unreal in their languishings; and he had spoken of such people with
considerable severity, feeling that with a little effort they might at
any moment have escaped from their difficulties. But no, there was no
escape; nothing to do but to endure.
It was not long before Genji heard what was going on. It had always
been a comfort to him that Yūgiri possessed so much good sense and
moderation. It was pleasant, for instance, to feel that whatever
scandals had to be investigated, Yūgiri’s name would never be involved;
and the more so because Genji himself had suffered from the
effects of a quite opposite reputation. This attachment with Ochiba in
any case could bring little happiness to either of them. But it would
not have been quite so bad if she had been some one quite outside their
circle. As it was, what must Tō no Chūjō and the rest be feeling about
it? However, Yūgiri was quite capable of seeing all this for himself.
There was nothing that Genji could usefully say. He did not indeed
think so much about Yūgiri as about the two ladies. For them he could
not help being extremely sorry. He mentioned the affair to Murasaki,
one day when he was talking things over with her, and spoke of his
own anxiety as to what would become of her when he, like Kashiwagi,
should have passed away. She blushed and a look of pain crossed her
face; for she knew well enough how unlikely it was that she would
survive him. She pitied all women. How impossibly difficult was their
position! If they shut themselves away, ignored the existence of
beauty, tenderness—of all emotion—what was left, save to sit thinking
of darkness and the grave? Nor was it, in the end, of the slightest
satisfaction to the parents who bore one, that one should grow up
into an inexperienced nonentity; on the contrary, they were extremely
disappointed. Was there not a story about the Silent Prince?[153]
That was the kind of life women were expected to lead. They must lock
everything up in their hearts. But even the clergy regarded silence
as one of the hardest penances; and it was only by consenting to
speak at last that the Silent Prince, despite all his ‘knowledge of
good and evil,’ managed to avoid being buried alive. And even if one
could settle, to one’s own satisfaction, on a correct middle course,
the difficulties of pursuing it were immense.... It was not of herself,
of course, that she was thinking, but of her adopted child, the Akashi
Princess.
Curious to see how he would take it, Genji began speaking of their
friends at Ono next time Yūgiri came to his palace. ‘So the mourning
for Ochiba’s mother will soon be over,’ he said. ‘It must be just
thirty years since Suzaku first took her under his protection.... A
lifetime, yes, that is what a whole lifetime looks like when one sees
it stretched out! The night is soon over, the dewdrops vanish in the
sun, and “what worth gaining, to hold so short a while?” But after
she had taken her vows and turned her back on the world, I fancy she
settled down into a not too uncomfortable existence. I am sorry she is
gone. A great misfortune, a very great misfortune.’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ said
Yūgiri, ‘when one sees what useless and unimportant people are spoken
of at their decease as “losses to the country.”’ ‘The ceremonies on the
forty-ninth day,’ he continued, ‘are left entirely in the hands of her
nephew, the Governor of Yamato. It is a wretched business; and somehow
her evident loss of all influence and proper support makes a more
painful impression now that she is gone than ever during her lifetime.’
‘It has no doubt been a great shock to Suzaku,’ said Genji. ‘But I am
chiefly sorry for the daughter. I hear, by the way, that she is pretty;
after Nyosan, she was certainly her father’s favourite.’ ‘About the
daughter,’ said Yūgiri, ‘I know very little. But I believe the mother
was a very agreeable woman. I did not know her well; but on one or
two occasions I was able to be of some slight service to her.’ If his
son had lied less flatly, Genji would have felt it possible to
continue the conversation. But such an attitude betokened a state of
mind that was far removed from either inviting or accepting advice. He
felt in any case the absurdity of such a person as himself taking a
high line about these questions, and changed the subject.
In point of fact the arrangements for the service of the Forty-ninth
Day were made almost entirely by Yūgiri, who took the utmost pains in
planning every detail. The reason for all this zest on his part was
naturally the subject of much speculation. Tō no Chūjō, when the matter
was mentioned to him, was disinclined, from what he knew of Yūgiri’s
character, to credit the existence of any scandal, and chiefly blamed
Ochiba for allowing an outside person to play so prominent a part in
the proceedings.
It reached Suzaku’s ears that she intended to stay at Ono and become
a nun. ‘I hope you will do nothing of the kind,’ he wrote. ‘It is,
I know, generally considered creditable for a widow to remain in
retirement. But there are circumstances under which, for a girl like
you, with no one to take her side, such a course might have an opposite
effect, both in this life and the next, to that which you imagine.
At this moment I do not think you can either withdraw from the Court
without giving countenance to undesirable rumours, or embrace the
religious life in a suitable state of mind. If you are really bent
upon religion, pray do nothing irretrievable till you have given your
feelings time to subside....’ He wrote several times to this effect. It
was evident that he had heard her name coupled with Yūgiri’s, and was
afraid it would be thought that she was leaving the world in a fit of
pique at the affair not having gone as she wished.
The news that Ochiba was soon returning to Court put Yūgiri in a
difficult position. If he acted as one already having claims upon
her, it would give the impression that the late princess had not
exercised her functions with proper strictness—an aspersion which, even
though it were not taken very seriously, he did not care to inflict
upon the dead woman’s reputation. But to convince the world that the
attachment had just commenced, to re-enact all the familiar stages of
incipient attraction, courtship and melancholy was more than could be
expected of him.
As soon as the day of her arrival had been fixed, he sent for the
Governor of Yamato and consulted with him as to what could be done to
make the palace in the First Ward less uncomfortable. Even before the
removal to Ono the place had for so long been inhabited by women only
that everything had run very much to seed. He now gave orders for a
general cleaning up of the rooms and a complete new set of hangings,
screens, curtains-of-state and the like, seeing to every detail
himself. It was arranged that these fittings should be made as quickly
as possible in the Governor’s own house.
When the day came Yūgiri sent his carriage and outriders to fetch her,
but did not go himself. To her protestations that she had no intention
of leaving Ono, her cousin, the Governor of Yamato, replied: ‘Madam,
in this matter you must bow to my judgment. I feel for you deeply, and
have for some time past done everything in my power to assist you. But
I have my province to think of; urgent affairs await me, and I must
return at once. Fortunately things are not so bad as they might be.
I am handing on the direction of your household to a most loyal and
painstaking successor. I am not suggesting that you should accept him
in any capacity other than mine has lately been. But should you choose
to do so, you would have many precedents in your favour; nor would
any one have a right to blame you, even though it were known that the
attachment were solely on his side. For a lady’s intentions, however
determined she may be, cannot be put into practice without the
aid of some admirer who is ready to place his influence and resources
at her disposal. Do not think that I mistrust your intelligence. Your
decisions, I am sure, will always be excellent; I merely question
your ability to carry them out.’ And then turning to Ochiba’s ladies:
‘I regard you all as very much to blame in this matter. You set the
whole thing going, and now, I have reason to believe, you are refusing
to carry messages or give the unfortunate gentleman any reasonable
assistance.’ Thus reproached, her waiting-women gathered round her and
began to attire her in the new clothes into which she was to change
for the journey. She was prevailed upon at last to let them dress the
hair—full six feet of it—that she longed so ardently to sacrifice.[154]
It grew a little thinner than formerly, though not to an extent that
any one else would have noticed. But Ochiba now surveyed it with
dismay. How altered she was, in this and every way! Never again would
she dare to show herself.... ‘Come now,’ her ladies cried, ‘we should
have been on the road hours ago. It will soon be getting dark.’ One had
slipped out with a toilet-case, another with a clothes-box. Hampers,
sacks one by one had been laid upon the wagons. There was no one left
in the house, and at last, since she could not stay there all alone,
weeping bitterly she climbed into the carriage that Yūgiri had sent.
At last they arrived. What had happened to her mother’s house? Who were
all these people that crowded the passages? Whence this strange air
of festivity? And hardly able to believe that this was indeed her old
home, Ochiba sat motionless in the carriage long after it had halted.
Yūgiri was waiting in the eastern wing of the palace. He had brought
so many possessions with him that Kumoi’s people concluded he was
about to make a long stay. ‘He might have given us a little warning,’
they said. ‘When, pray, did the ceremony[155] take place?’ It was
assumed that a relationship had been going on in secret for years past.
To no one did it occur that the attachment was not mutual; a state of
affairs very unfortunate for Ochiba.
When supper was over and everything had quieted down, Yūgiri went to
Shōshō no Kimi and commenced his usual appeal. ‘Surely you can make
up your mind to let her alone for a day or two,’ the girl said. ‘We
can all trust you to remain faithful for as long as that. Madam, so
far from being any more cheerful to-day, has felt this homecoming very
bitterly, and it is no use trying to approach her. I must ask you, on
my own behalf, to show a little consideration; for if anything puts
her out, all the burden falls on me. It really is not possible to do
anything with her when she is in this state.’ ‘That is very odd,’ said
Yūgiri. ‘I should never have supposed, from what I know of her, that
she was so churlish and unmanageable ...’ and he began to advance
every reason why it must inevitably be not only to his advantage but
also to hers—why no one could possibly blame them, till Shōshō no Kimi
interrupted impatiently: ‘You might as well ask me to bring messages to
a corpse. I tell you she is half out of her wits, and were I to talk to
her all night, she would not at the end of it have understood a word
I said. I am sure, Sir, you would not wish to take advantage of her
while she is in such a condition.’ And she wrung her hands. ‘This is
unheard-of,’ he cried. ‘No one can ever have been insulted in so brutal
a manner before. It would surprise her to learn how any outside person
would be struck by such conduct.’ ‘You have very little experience of
the world,’ she laughed, ‘if this is what you call “unheard-of.” And
as for appealing to outsiders, I think the less said about that
the better. I am not at all sure that they would be on your side.’ But
though she stood up to him so well, she could not, as he was now in
charge of the household, close doors against him, and presently the two
of them together entered the princess’s room. How could one combat such
impertinence, such callous lack of consideration? Ochiba did something
which she knew would be thought childish and undignified. Picking up
a mattress, she rushed into the store-room and locked the door from
within. How long would she have to stay here? There was no knowing. All
her people seemed now to be on Yūgiri’s side; and in utter wretchedness
she settled down there for the night. He for his part, when he had
got over his first indignation and surprise, felt calmer. This was
decisive; there could be no question of any completer rebuff. Here they
were for the night, for all the world like those unfortunate birds the
_yamadori_,[156] one on each side of the door. At last the dawn broke,
and as he was not anxious to publish too widely the fact that this was
the way in which they had spent the night, he now left the house, after
once more attempting in vain to induce her to open the door even so
much as a crack.
He went to his father’s palace to rest, and there got into conversation
with the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers. ‘What does Kumoi
think of Ochiba’s return to the First Ward?’ she asked in her mild,
tranquil voice. ‘So people are making a story out of that, are they?’
he said. ‘The truth is quite simple. At first Ochiba’s mother was
adverse to my taking charge of her daughter. But in her last hours she
felt very anxious as to what would become of Ochiba, were she left
with no one to manage her affairs, and as I had been a great friend
of Kashiwagi, she withdrew her objection and begged me to help
Ochiba in every way. There was nothing scandalous or surprising in my
having brought her back to the First Ward; all such ideas are the mere
invention of gossips and busybodies. As for Ochiba’—and here he laughed
slightly—‘she talks of nothing but becoming a nun, which shows that
my devotion is not of much interest to her. Perhaps it would be the
best thing, after all, if she did go into a nunnery; for at present my
position both with her and with Kumoi is an impossible one. But till
she does so, I must continue to help her as best I can—to do what her
mother would have wished.
‘Next time my father comes to see you, please explain all this to him,
if you get the chance. I have been frightened to mention it, lest
he should think that, after all this time, I have suddenly become
frivolous in my behaviour.... Though as a matter of fact in things
of that kind there is no reason for me to fear reproach, either from
others or from my own conscience.’ ‘I always thought,’ she answered,
‘that a quite wrong account had been given of the matter; and now I
see that I was right. And really, there is no reason why you should
not have two wives if you want to. I am only sorry for the poor little
princess. She has had things all her own way for so long.’ ‘“Poor
little princess,” indeed!’ exclaimed Yūgiri indignantly. ‘It is hard
to recognize her in such a description. She is very well able to look
after herself, I assure you. “Little demon” would describe her better,
when she fancies her rights are being infringed. And why should you
suppose I am going to ill-treat her? If you will forgive my saying so,
I should have thought your own case showed how much was to be gained
in the end by a little patience and self-restraint. A man may for the
moment be hustled by tears and demonstrations; but promises exacted
in that way are broken immediately, and at the same time leave
behind them a disagreeable feeling on both sides. As you know, I have
always admired my stepmother in many ways; but nothing about her has
ever struck me as more admirable than her forbearance with regard to
you.’ She was not deceived by this flattery. ‘That is only your way of
making clear how little so insignificant a person as myself can know
of such a situation,’ she said, smiling. ‘But I cannot believe that
Genji, of all people, would dare to make any fuss about a matter of
this kind, even to me in private. That would really be more than one
could tolerate....’ ‘You are quite wrong,’ answered Yūgiri. ‘He has
often held forth to me about such matters; and naturally, however bad
his advice may be, I am bound to appear impressed. I know the situation
is rather absurd.’
But to return to the palace in the First Ward. ‘Madam,’ said Ochiba’s
maids, ‘you cannot continue to shut yourself up every time he calls.
Would it not be better to receive him once in the usual way, and if
you wish to break with him, tell him so properly, and have done with
the business for good and all?’ But she did not feel that she owed
any consideration to one who had shown none to her and had already
inflicted upon her reputation injuries which it would take years to
efface.
‘Our mistress says that if later on, when she is feeling more inclined
for conversation, you are still kind enough to remember her, she will
see whether she cannot arrange to talk with you. But at present, while
the memory of her mother’s death is still so recent, she begs to be
excused.’ So reported one of the maids. ‘But the fact of the matter
is,’ she went on, ‘that every one already regards you as a married
pair, and this naturally annoys her extremely.’ ‘But it is not as
though on any previous occasion I had taken advantage of her, as many
men would have done.... Tell her that if she will come out into
her room, I will make no objection to there being a screen between us,
so long as I am allowed to tell her of what I am suffering—which will
certainly not break her heart to hear! Let her grant me this, and she
shall hear no more from me for many a long month.’ So Yūgiri pleaded;
and when all other arguments proved vain, he put it at last to Shōshō
no Kimi that if he were now to absent himself altogether, it would be
thought that he had tired of Ochiba—an assumption more wounding to her
pride than any of the rumours that were already afoot.
This was undeniable, and Yūgiri (it was evident) would be so abjectly
grateful for a mere glimpse of the princess, that Shōshō no Kimi
weakened, and finally showed him how to enter the store-room by a
secret door that led into the maids’ rooms on the north side. That one
of the ordinary servants should be talked round into betraying her was
natural enough, the world being as it is. But here was Shōshō no Kimi,
her kinswoman, the one person whom she believed to be really on her
side, handing her over to the enemy without a moment’s compunction.
Yūgiri was now addressing to her every conceivable form of specious
argument and entreaty. But though he spoke with what she recognized to
be great eloquence and spirit, she remained entirely unmoved, sitting
before him with her robe (for she was wearing no mantle) clutched
tightly to her. Her determination to thwart him was evidently so
intense, and her whole attitude expressed such profound horror at his
proximity, that for the first time he began to think this was no mere
shyness or widowly discretion. Almost any woman, he felt, would have
shown some response to such a courtship as his had been. But she,
through it all, had been unbending as an oak. He had heard of intense,
unreasoning dislikes, for which no cause, save an adverse experience
in some previous life, could be assigned. But so clear a case as
this he never thought to have discovered. Was this all that he had got
in return for so much that he had thrown away? And he remembered the
time before any difficulties grew up between him and Kumoi—all the
small secrets and confidences that had made those years so delightful.
Suddenly he lapsed into silence; his pleading was at an end. They both
sat waiting for the dawn.
Though called a store-room, the place where they sat was not much
encumbered. There were a few chests, full of perfumes, and some
tray-stands, all pushed well out of the way, so that the effect was
that of a small and rather cosy room. It had hitherto been quite dark;
but now a ray of daylight suddenly darted in at the open door. She had
buried her head in the folds of her robe. He leant forward and pulled
the dress. Her hair fell in a tangle about her face, and it was only
when he had pushed it back that he could at last make out her features
in the growing light. It was an interesting, lively face that met his
gaze; aristocratic, yet soft and womanly. And what did she think of
him? In truth, she liked him as she saw him now far better than when
he was dressed up for company. But it was impossible that he should
see anything in her. Had not Kashiwagi (who had far less right to be
particular) found her utterly unattractive? And that was years ago,
when she was very different indeed from what she was now.... Thus she
reasoned with herself. And what would her father and Tō no Chūjō think?
Then there was her mother’s death.... If only the period of mourning
were over.... It took Yūgiri a long time to contend with all these
arguments.
When breakfast was served (not in the store-room, I need hardly say!)
it was thought that the dark furniture used during her mourning would
strike a jarring note, and a space was divided off at one end of
the room, her screen-of-state being of clove-grey, and the furniture
in general of not too sumptuous a nature. The meal was served on a
two-shelved sideboard of plain sandal-wood, all these things having
been provided beforehand by the Governor of Yamato.
The attendants were dressed in inconspicuous shades of yellow,
plum-colour, grey and brown, with a few in lighter and gayer
colour mixed among them. As the union had taken place in a woman’s
establishment, there were many details in the traditional rite which
could not be observed; nor had there been any one except the Governor
to arrange matters and instruct the under-servants in their duties.
On hearing that so distinguished a guest was settled in the house,
many family retainers who were not for the moment on duty hastened to
the palace, and were received by Yūgiri in what I think is called the
estate-office.
When Kumoi found that he showed no signs of returning from the palace
in the First Ward, she felt that she had gone on long enough defending
him. People were right. He was no longer the same steady, unchanging
Yūgiri of former days. Of that Yūgiri not a scrap was left; and seeing
no reason why she should put up with further humiliation at his hands,
she called at Tō no Chūjō’s house, and alleging an unfavourable
conjunction of the stars, established herself there apparently for the
night. It so happened that Lady Chūjō was home on a visit. Kumoi found
considerable comfort in her sister’s company, and prolonged her stay.
Tō no Chūjō had heard rumours of Yūgiri’s new attachment, and was
not surprised that the affair should have come to a head. He thought
Kumoi’s flight an unnecessarily violent form of protest; but then she
had always been quick-tempered and headstrong.
However, if Kumoi was difficult to deal with, her father was ten times
more so. No one had ever insisted so punctiliously upon his
rights as head of the family. He seemed almost to take pleasure in
parading his intractability. Yūgiri was convinced that if he presented
himself at the Great Hall, his father-in-law would behave in the most
unreasonable way. ‘Disgraceful. Not a word. Out of my sight!’ That was
his style, and Yūgiri felt he could not face such a scene.
Kumoi had left some of the children behind; but the little girls, who
were mere babies, she had taken with her to Tō no Chūjō’s palace.
Upon Yūgiri’s first return to his home the little boys were wild with
delight and clustered round him. One of them, however, began to cry,
saying he was unhappy without his mother, which Yūgiri found very
harassing. He wrote letter after letter begging Kumoi to return, and
even sent a carriage to fetch her; but all to no effect. Her obstinacy
was beginning to irritate him, and he felt very much inclined to leave
things as they were. But this, he feared, might make a bad impression
upon her father, and towards evening he called in person at the house.
He went at once to the quarters she usually occupied when on a visit
here. Kumoi was nowhere to be seen; but he eventually found some of her
ladies, and the little girls with their nurse. From them he learned
that Kumoi was living in the central building with her sister. ‘You
establish yourself in your sister’s apartments, as though you were
not yet of age, leaving some of your children at home and the rest in
a distant wing of this palace. Pray tell me what all this means. I
have realized for a long time past that your head was full of the most
ridiculous notions; but I did not think that, after all the devotion I
have shown you in past times, you would fly both from me and our large
family of children upon what is after all so flimsy a pretext.’ This
was the rather testy note he sent in to her. She replied: ‘What good
can come of my returning to you? At present you are tired of me,
and I see no reason to suppose that this feeling is not permanent. As
for the children, I am delighted to find that you take such an interest
in them.’
He made no further effort to bring her back with him, and spent the
night alone. What kind of man can he have been (Yūgiri asked himself)
who started the notion that love was an agreeable business? To distract
himself he had the little boys put to sleep where he could see them.
But he got little rest; for no sooner had he stopped thinking about the
disastrous flight of Kumoi than he began worrying about Ochiba. How
much would she be upset by his absence to-night? Would all his work in
that quarter have to be begun over again?
Next morning he wrote to Kumoi: ‘I think your decision will be regarded
by every one as very unreasonable; but such as it is I am willing to
accept it. The children you have left behind with me are naturally much
distressed at your absence. But I presume you had reasons of your own
for deserting them as you did, and you must leave it to me to make such
provision for them as I think best.’ There seemed in this to be hidden
some form of threat. Did he mean to hand them over to a stepmother?
Monstrous as such a demand would be, she thought him quite capable of
it. Later on he even asked that the girls might be sent back to him.
‘It will henceforward be very difficult for me to have any dealings
with your father,’ he wrote, ‘and I shall probably never see the little
girls at all, unless they come here. Surely it would be better to bring
up all the children together?’ The boys were pretty creatures, still
quite small. ‘Do not listen to your mother,’ he said to them. ‘There
are many things which she does not properly understand, and this has
given her some harsh ideas, that are doing us all great harm.’
So far from being indignant with Yūgiri, Tō no Chūjō thought
that his daughter was merely making herself ridiculous by this sudden
decampment. ‘You might have waited a little,’ he said to Kumoi, ‘to see
how things would go. Yūgiri is after all a man of considerable good
sense. Such headstrong and precipitate behaviour does not sit at all
well upon a woman. However, since you have adopted this line, you must
stick to it for the present. We shall see later on what steps he will
take to get you back.’
To Ochiba Tō no Chūjō sent the poem: ‘Because of the bond that was
between us I will keep you a place in my heart. But for sympathy you
must ask me no longer—you who now have more than your share!’ As
messenger he chose his son Ben no Shōshō, who had known the house very
well in Kashiwagi’s time, and walked straight in. He was given a seat
on the verandah outside the women’s quarters; but none of the ladies
seemed much inclined for conversation. In Ochiba his visit naturally
awakened painful memories. He was the best-looking and most promising
of Tō no Chūjō’s sons, and as she watched him from within, Ochiba was
astonished by his resemblance to Kashiwagi. ‘Can it be,’ he wrote,
‘that you intend to treat me, who came so often to this house, as an
utter stranger?’
She found Tō no Chūjō’s poem very hard to answer. Her maids insisted
that it could not be dealt with by proxy If only her mother were there
to help her with it. She perhaps would be vexed at the circumstances
that had called forth Tō no Chūjō’s protest. But her mother had
always been ready to help her out of a difficulty, even to screen her
misdoings.
‘How can I, that am but one person, at the same time merit both
sympathy and reproach?’ Such was the tenor of her reply, and merely
folding it up she sent it out to Ben no Shōshō unsealed. ‘For a person
who used to know the house,’ he was saying to her ladies, ‘it
is rather dispiriting to be left on the verandah in this way. I see
that if I am to be regarded as a privileged person I must come here
often. Full admittance is no doubt only granted as the reward of long
assiduity. So expect to see me here frequently,’ and with this attempt
at levity he withdrew.
At the time when Ochiba was giving him no encouragement and Yūgiri’s
distraction was most trying to those who lived with him, Kumoi suddenly
received a letter from Koremitsu’s[157] daughter. Kumoi, this lady
supposed, had always regarded her with complete indifference. Yet
somehow the news of what was going on at Ono moved her to write a
letter of sympathy, and it was followed by others. In her poem she
said: ‘I that am nothing, not for my own sake but for yours with
tear-wet sleeve lament that love grows cold.’ Kumoi thought this
perhaps a trifle impertinent; but receiving it as she did at a time of
profound discouragement, she was by no means displeased to discover
sympathy even in so humble a quarter. ‘How often have I grieved for
others in this same plight, and little dreamed how soon it would be
mine.’ This was all that she sent in reply; but simple though the words
were, Koremitsu’s daughter did not doubt their sincerity.
It should be explained that during the period when Tō no Chūjō kept
Yūgiri away from Kumoi, he had carried on a secret affair with this
daughter of Koremitsu. After his marriage he saw her only on very rare
occasions. By Kumoi he had four boys and four girls; by Koremitsu’s
daughter two boys and two girls. All twelve were handsome and
well-grown children, particularly the four born to him in this secret
union, who were also very intelligent. The younger girl and younger boy
were left with Koremitsu’s daughter. But the older boy and girl
were educated by the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers, who made
a great fuss of them. Here they were often seen by Genji and became
great favourites with him.
And so for the present we may leave Yūgiri and his affairs.
[141] See above, p. 229.
[142] The Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers.
[143] With his father, Genji.
[144] ‘If ever before I had received unkindness at your hands, this
sudden dereliction would be less hard to bear.’
[145] The Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers. Yūgiri is
pretending that it was from her the letter came.
[146] Ochiba’s house in the mountains.
[147] According to the astrologers.
[148] See above, p. 281.
[149] Those who die with anything on their minds cannot enter Paradise.
[150] A rattle used by peasants to scare away birds from the crops.
[151] Suzaku.
[152] Otonashi no Taki.
[153] A Buddhist story. The prince, being endowed with knowledge of
good and evil, and memory of his past existences, remembered that in
the last but one he had spoken an angry word, and consequently spent
his next existence in Hell. Having now been born as a prince, he
determined to be on the safe side, and did not speak at all. When he
was thirteen, the King lost patience with him and gave orders that he
was to be buried alive. Upon which the Silent Prince at last spoke. For
a version of the story see Chavannes, _Cinq Cent Contes et Apologues_,
i, 126.
[154] I.e. to become a nun.
[155] The formal betrothal.
[156] The copper pheasant; the male and female are supposed to sleep
one on each side of the valley.
[157] Genji’s retainer. See vol. i, _passim_. Yūgiri had fallen in love
with her when she was at the Palace as a Gosechi dancer. See vol. iii,
p. 130.
CHAPTER XI
THE LAW
Though Murasaki was apparently no longer in immediate danger, her
illness had now lasted so many months that there appeared to be
little hope of recovery. To Genji it seemed that her strength was
gradually ebbing away. The thought of surviving her appalled him; and
she herself, without anxiety for the future[158] (she was indeed to
a singular extent devoid of such fetters as commonly bind us to the
world), had no misgiving, save the thought of what her death would mean
to one who had been her companion so long.
Her thoughts, as was natural, turned much upon the life to come, and
her time was spent in numerous charities and consecrations. Best of
all, she would still have liked to spend the remaining moments of her
life in some place where they could be wholly devoted to religion; but
Genji would not give her leave. However, he had himself often expressed
an intention of pursuing the same course. Why should they not then do
so together? But certain though their faith might be that in Amida’s
Paradise the same lotus would be their throne, in the meanwhile, he in
his convent and she in her nunnery, however near they might be, would
not be able to meet. His anxiety, if she should grow suddenly worse,
the mere thought that she was in pain, would (Genji well knew) make
havoc of his meditations. Yes, he must content himself to lag behind,
where so many frail creatures[159] had gone forward unafraid.
She might indeed have acted without his permission; but to
have obtained her end by such a course would, she knew, give her no
satisfaction, and she felt aggrieved that her wish was still denied.
Perhaps however (she reflected) it was not his fault. No doubt some sin
of her own was weighing upon her and holding her back from spiritual
progress.
Some while ago she had caused a thousand copies of the Lotus Scripture
to be made, and she now hastened to give them as an offering. The
ceremony was to take place in the Nijō-in, which she had come to regard
as her home. The robes for the seven ministrants were also her gift,
and every detail, down to the stitching of the seams, was designed
according to her directions. She had not told Genji what was afoot,
but he naturally saw something of the preparations, and admired the
taste and knowledge that marked her handling of religious as well as
of all other activities; and he managed, while not knowing exactly
what was needed, to make a few such general contributions as could not
come amiss. Yūgiri was in charge of the dancers and music. Presents
and contributions poured in from the Emperor, the Crown Prince, the
Empress, and all the great ladies at Court, in such numbers that the
messengers would at any time have packed the corridors almost to
overflowing. It may be imagined then what was the scene when they were
added to the throngs that were already assembled for the Service.[160]
It was the tenth day of the third month. The trees were all in
blossom, the weather mild and calm; indeed it seemed as though Paradise
itself were not far away, and even an unbeliever could not but have
regained his innocence. The Woodman’s Song, resounding from so many
lips, moved Murasaki intensely, as indeed it would have done at any
time in her life. But to-day the words had a new significance. ‘Though
in life no prize awaits me, yet am I sad to know the firewood is burnt
out and soon the flame will sink.’ So she wrote, and sent the poem to
the Lady of Akashi, by the hand of little Prince Niou. To answer in the
same strain would be thought unfeeling, should any one chance to hear
of it, and though the reply seemed to her somewhat forced, the Lady of
Akashi wrote: ‘For a thousand years did the Blessed One that hermit
serve; and shall your flame so soon amid the faggots of his Law expire?’
All night long the chanting continued, to the perpetual beatings of
gongs and drums. As dawn began to break and the colours of the flowers
showed forth again where the morning air had rent the mist, Murasaki
felt that Spring, the season she had loved, still had the power to
call her back. And while from every branch came a twittering of
birds, that made even the shrill music of the flutes seem dumb, the
dancer stepped the dance of Prince Ling.[161] The effect of the final
movement, especially of the gay, rapid passage at the end (given the
place and hour), was tremendous. Gifts poured in upon the performers,
those present in their excitement stripping the cloaks off their own
backs and heaping them before the dancers and musicians. Then followed
a concert in which all the notable players at Court took their part.
Every one seemed happy and excited.
‘A little longer,’ thought Murasaki; and she felt there were after
all many things that it was sad to lose.
But she had on the day before exerted herself far more than usual, and
was now very fatigued. When she thought that all these people, whom
she had for so many years past seen at similar gatherings, such a one
always with his flute, another with his zithern, were before her for
the last time, she raised herself with an effort and looked fixedly at
each one. And then there were the ladies with whom, at the summer and
winter festivals, she had carried on a kind of rivalry. Sometimes, over
these concerts and sports, there had even been, underneath the outward
show of good manners, a certain element of jealousy and bitterness. Yet
she loved them all; and now they, for a time at any rate, would stay
behind, while she, all alone, set out she knew not whither.
So grave was her condition during the summer heats, that the Akashi
Princess obtained leave of absence from the Palace, and settled in
the Nijō-in. She was to occupy the eastern wing, but ceremonies of
reception took place in the Main Hall. The procedure was the same as
that which Murasaki had witnessed many times before. But to-day it
moved her strangely, for she felt it to be her last glimpse of the
outside world; and as the names of the attendant officers were called,
her ear strained eagerly for the response of this or that long-familiar
voice. It was some while since she had seen the Princess and there was
much to say. ‘I am so glad you have come here first,’ Murasaki greeted
her. ‘I hear you are to be quartered far off in the eastern wing. Once
you are settled there, it will be tiresome for you to come over here;
and I am afraid I shall scarcely be able to visit you....’
The Princess remained with her a long while, and they were presently
joined by the Lady of Akashi. During the conversation that
followed, Murasaki made no allusion to her own approaching death.
But she let fall now and then a few words, spoken very seriously and
quietly, which showed that the transience of all human things ran
constantly through her thoughts. Seeing the Akashi Princess’s children
she shed a few tears. How dearly she would have loved to see what
became of them! Her tear-stained face was so lovely, and she looked in
every way so far the reverse of haggard or ailing, that the Princess
could hardly believe the truth of the dismal reports she had heard.
This mysterious and ever-growing weakness—whence came it and how had
it begun? Murasaki did at last refer to her death, but in a quite
matter-of-fact way, saying in the course of conversation: ‘There are
one or two servants who have been here for years past. I do not like to
think of their being left without support. Perhaps, when I am no longer
here, you would not mind keeping an eye upon them,’ and she named
several of such officers and retainers to the Akashi Princess.
Presently, when the others had retired, to prayers or what not,
Murasaki, during a respite of her malady, sent for little Niou, who was
her favourite among all the royal children, and said to him: ‘If I were
not here, would you sometimes think about me?’ ‘Yes, indeed I would,’
he said. ‘I love my father, the Emperor, and Madam my mother too;
but not half as much as I love my dear granny. Without you I should
be very sad,’ and trying to hide his tears, he hastily brushed his
sleeve across his face with so pretty a gesture that she could not help
smiling. ‘When you are grown up,’ she said, ‘you shall have this house
for your own, and in the flower-season you will have the red plum and
cherry tree in front of your window. Enjoy them, and sometimes, should
you think of it, offer a spray or two of blossom to the Lord Buddha.’
He watched her face earnestly while she spoke, and nodded at the
end. Then, feeling that he could no longer check his tears, he left the
room.
The cool of autumn brought her a certain measure of relief; but the
slightest exertion was sufficient to cause a relapse. The weather
was at no time very severe; but as the season wore on she suffered
from a continual sense of damp and chill. The time for the Princess’s
return to Court had come. Murasaki longed to beg for an extension of
her visit; but the Emperor was already chafing at her long absence.
Messengers were continually arriving from Court, and it would have been
impertinent to detain her for more than a few hours longer. Since it
was utterly out of the question that Murasaki should pay the customary
visit to the Princess’s quarters, the Princess, contrary to all
precedent, condescended to visit her. The sick woman felt embarrassed
at causing this difficulty; but she longed passionately to see the girl
once more, and finally all the royal gear was carried to the Main Hall.
A cold wind had sprung up towards evening; but Murasaki, wanting to
get a better view of the garden, had been helped on to a couch by the
window. Genji was delighted to see her capable of so much exertion.
‘You seemed to get on much better to-day,’ he said. ‘I believe it has
given you new strength to have the Princess so near you.’ His delight
at her supposed improvement only brought home to her all the more
poignantly how terrible was the blow that awaited him. ‘Hopes then
the dewdrop upon the wind-swept grasses of the heath to build a safe
abode?’ Such was the acrostic[162] poem she recited; and he: ‘Where all
things race so madly to their doom, why think one fragile dewdrop will
be first to reach the destined goal?’
‘Now,’ she said presently, ‘you had better go back to your rooms.
I am feeling very giddy; and though I know you would forgive me if I
did not entertain you properly, I do not like to feel that I have been
behaving badly.’ Her screens-of-state were drawn in close about the
couch. The Princess stood holding Murasaki’s hand in hers. She seemed
indeed to be fading like a dewdrop from the grass. So certain seemed
the approach of death that messengers were sent in every direction to
bid the priests read scriptures for her salvation. But she had more
than once recovered from such attacks as these, and it was hoped that
this was merely another onslaught of the ‘possession’ that had attacked
her years before. All night long various prayers and incantations were
kept going, but in vain; for she died next morning soon after sunrise.
The Akashi Princess was profoundly thankful that she had stayed
to witness the end. The event, though so long expected, left all
her people in a state of dazed bewilderment. Genji himself broke
down completely, and when Yūgiri arrived, felt disposed to put all
arrangements into his son’s hands. Summoning him to where she lay,
Genji said: ‘You know that it was always her desire to take Orders
before she died; but not realizing how swiftly the end would come, I
would not give her leave—which I now deeply regret. The chaplains who
were on duty during the night have apparently all left the house, or at
least I hear no sound of them. But there is probably still some priest
or other to be found. It is not too late to do what may, with Buddha’s
help, aid her on the dark road she must tread.’[163]
‘I have known many cases,’ said Yūgiri, ‘in which a possessing spirit
was thwarted by such a course, and it might well have been so in her
case. They say that to have joined a holy Order for a single day
or night brings great benefit in the life hereafter. But now that she
is dead, what sense can there be in administering the tonsure? You
will only be making the scenes which must ensue more depressing for
yourself, without affording any assistance to her in the journey beyond
the grave.’ Certain priests had, it was found, stayed behind to watch
the body, and sending for them Yūgiri now instructed them in their
duties. It was many years since his thoughts about Murasaki had been
other than he could publish to all the world. But since he caught sight
of her on the morning of the typhoon, he had often wondered whether
they would ever again be brought together. Her voice he now knew he
would never hear; but there was still a chance to see her once again,
and while scolding one of the maids for the loudness of her sobbing,
as though absent-mindedly, he pulled up a corner of the curtains. The
daylight was still feeble, and he could see very little. But at that
moment Genji[164] himself held up the great lamp, bringing it so close
to the couch that Yūgiri suddenly saw her in all her loveliness. ‘And
why should he not see her?’ thought Genji, who knew that Yūgiri was
peeping. But in a moment he covered his eyes with his sleeve. ‘It
is almost worse to see her now, while she is still unchanged,’ he
said. ‘One thinks that she will speak, move....’ Yūgiri brushed away
the tears that kept on dimming his eyes. Her hair lay spread across
the pillows, loose, but not tangled or disorderly, in a great mass,
against which in the strong lamplight her face shone with a dazzling
whiteness. Never, thought Genji, had her beauty seemed so flawless as
now, when the eye could rest upon it undistracted by any ripple of
sound or motion. Yūgiri gazed astounded. His spirit seemed to leave
him, to float through space and hover near her, as though it were
he that was the ghost, and this the lovely body he had chosen for his
habitation.
As neither Genji nor any of the ladies who had been long in Murasaki’s
service were in a condition to make the final arrangements, all this,
as well as the duty of encouraging and consoling the bereaved, fell
upon Yūgiri. His life had brought him occasion to witness many scenes
of sorrow, but none so pitiful as those that now ensued; nor did he
imagine that it could ever fall to his lot again.
For many days afterwards he remained in close attendance upon his
father, trying by every means he could think of to distract and console
him. The equinoctial gales had begun to blow, and to-night it came
back vividly to Yūgiri’s mind how he had caught sight of her on the
morning of the great typhoon. And then again on the day she died. That
Genji should mourn was well enough; but what right had Yūgiri to this
grievous pain? And to hide his sorrow he drew a rosary towards him, and
clicking the beads loudly he muttered, ‘Amida, Amida, Amida Buddha,’ so
swiftly that the falling of his tears could not be heard.
Day and night Genji wept, till it seemed that a veil of tears hung
between him and the world. A thousand times he asked himself what use
they had ever been to him—this beauty, of which so much had been said,
these talents that were supposed to raise him above all his peers? No
sooner did he come into the world than loneliness and sorrow fell to
his share. And then as though Buddha feared that even now he might
harbour some remnant of trust in life and its joys, loss upon loss was
visited upon him, from all of which he had in the end recovered. But
now at last this greatest of imaginable sorrows had indeed effected
what all previous afflictions had failed to achieve. No longer did
he ask for a day more in the world, save that he might devote it to
penances and fasting. And yet, if anything stood between him
and the demands of religion, it was this very sorrow, which by its
insensate violence had so unarmed him that he knew himself to be in no
fit state to take his vows. Often he prayed earnestly that a moment of
oblivion might come in which he could embrace the life he craved for.
There were times too when another consideration weighed with him. If he
were at once to enter an Order, it would be thought that he had done so
yielding weakly to an impulse of the moment—had been unhinged by the
shock of a sudden bereavement; and this was an impression that he by no
means wished to create.
Thus the struggle between his desire to embrace a different life, and
his distaste for the impression he would create by doing so, further
increased his agitation.
Even in the matter of condolences Tō no Chūjō made a point of never
going beyond what, in his view, the occasion strictly demanded. And
it indicated on his part a very high view of Murasaki’s worth that he
now not merely paid the formal visit of sympathy, but followed it by
numerous letters. He remembered that it had been just this time of
year, the middle of the eighth month, when his sister Aoi died; and
of those who had then mourned her, how many had since followed in her
tracks! So he was reflecting one cheerless evening, when autumn had
more than ever set its mark upon the sky. Sending for his son Ben no
Shōshō, he wrote a long letter to Genji, and in the margin: ‘An autumn
of the past seems like to-day, and adds fresh dewdrops to a sleeve
already drenched with tears.’ Memories of the past, not only of the
time when Aoi died, but of a thousand episodes in which he and Tō no
Chūjō had been linked together, now crowded to his mind, and it was
through a stream of tears that he wrote the reply: ‘This grief and
that are mingled in my thoughts, and only this I know: that hateful is
this season and all its ways.’ In the letter that he wrote with
this poem there might have been, had he expressed the half of what he
felt, a passionate outpouring of misery and despair. But he knew that
Tō no Chūjō was apt to regard the expression of such feelings as a sign
of reprehensible weakness, and promising to write again later, he now
merely said: ‘I cannot thank you enough for the sympathy that your many
enquiries have shown.’ ‘Though light in hue the dress....’ So had Genji
once[165] written. But custom could no longer restrain him, and he now
wore what was not far removed from full mourning.
Nor indeed was grief confined to the immediate circles of the Court.
It frequently happens that those who by favour have risen to such an
eminence as that which Murasaki enjoyed are subjected to a good deal
of general spite. Often they are felt, even when showing themselves
most affable, to be so conscious of their superiority, that what they
mean as kindness has merely the effect of making ordinary people
additionally timid and uncomfortable. In Murasaki there was no
suspicion of this. The rare loveableness of her nature had in one way
or another made its impression even in the most unlikely quarters, and
her partisans were as warm as they were ubiquitous. There were many
who, though they belonged to a class of society very different from
hers, could not during these autumn days hear with dry eyes either the
rush of the wind or the cry of insects.
The Empress Akikonomu wrote constantly to Genji at this time. In one of
her poems she said: ‘Rightly she judged (no more will I gainsay it) who
to dead leaves and weary autumn fields gave but a grudging praise.’
This letter, listless though he was, he read many times, and
felt that if any one’s company could serve at this moment to distract
him a little from his misery, it would be hers. ‘You that in far-off
countries of the sky can dwell secure, look back upon me here; for I am
weary of this frail world’s decay.’ So he answered, and having folded
the paper, sat for a long while gazing abstractedly before he sent it
on its way.
So little could he trust himself to behave with proper dignity and
restraint, that he altogether avoided the more public parts of the
palace, spending most of his time in a room near the women’s apartments
at the back. Here he was able to pursue his devotions undisturbed.
One thing only mattered to him now: to attain the certainty that,
parted though they were upon earth, in Paradise they would for ever be
refreshed by the dew of the same lotus.
The ceremonies of the Forty-ninth Day, for which (in his distraction)
Genji had omitted to give any instructions, were arranged by Yūgiri.
And so time passed, Genji constantly thinking that he would to-morrow
take the step for which he longed.... But somehow he did not do so. For
one thing, he longed first to see the Akashi Princess and her children.
[158] She had married off her adopted child, the Akashi Princess, to
the Emperor.
[159] Utsusemi, Fujitsubo, Nyosan, etc.
[160] The service consisted of the reading of the Lotus Scripture; this
required eight sittings. There was also the drama of the Woodman, one
priest playing the part of Shākyamuni when he was a woodman, and the
rest walking round him in circle and chanting the _Woodman’s Song_:
‘Had I not cut firewood and drawn water for the rishi, would you now
possess the Scripture of the Lotus Flower?’
This refers to a legend that in a previous incarnation Buddha obtained
the doctrine of the Lotus Scripture from a rishi whom he served as
henchman.
[161] _The Ranryō-o_. Prince Ling had a face of womanish beauty and
found that in battle his enemies were not afraid of him. He therefore
took to wearing a ferocious mask. But some say he wore it to protect
his complexion.
[162] Play on _oku_, ‘to settle’ (of dew) and _oku_, ‘to rise from bed.’
[163] Administer the tonsure; this was often done to the dying, and
occasionally to the dead.
[164] From inside the curtains.
[165] At the time of Aoi’s death. See vol. i, p. 275. Full mourning was
worn for a parent, but not for a wife.
CHAPTER XII
MIRAGE
Spring shone once more upon the world; and as in other years his doors
were thronged by visitors. But he pleaded illness, and remained behind
the screens-of-state. It was only when his half-brother, Prince Sochi,
came that he felt inclined for a less formal salutation, and calling
him into the screened recess, Genji recited the verse: ‘Seek not in
this domain the gladness of the year; for gone is she with whom ’twas
joy to praise the shining boughs of Spring.’ Prince Sochi answered:
‘Think not that I have come in quest of common flowers; but rather to
bemoan the loss of one whose scent has vanished from the air.’ And
when later on Genji watched his brother walking away beneath boughs of
red plum-blossom, he felt that if any one could this year incite him
to take pleasure in the beauty of the garden, it would be this Prince
Sochi, to whom his heart always warmed. The flowers were not yet fully
open; but that is just the time when their scent is sweetest. But this
year there were no concerts or picnics; indeed, all was changed.
Those of Murasaki’s ladies who had been long in her service were still
dressed in deep mourning and were inconsolable as ever for her loss.
Their only comfort was that Genji had quite ceased to pay any visits,
and they were thus able to distract themselves by continually waiting
upon him. It was long since he had had any serious dealings with people
such as this. But there were some of them to whom he had at one time
or another taken a fancy. If any of these now hoped to profit by the
situation, they were sadly mistaken. He slept alone; and those
ladies who were retained for night service went on duty several at a
time and were posted at a considerable distance from where he lay.
Sometimes he would talk to them about old days. It seemed that, despite
the increasing earnestness of her convictions, small matters (likely
to have no lasting effect upon their relations) had at the time very
much disturbed her; and it was intolerable to him that, trivial or
ridiculous though the occasion might have been, he should ever have
caused her to suffer. And much more when he came to think of the few
more serious occasions.... How often, while perfectly understanding
all that was going on in his mind, had she refrained from any reproach
or complaint! But there must all the same have been times when, at
any rate for the moment, it was quite impossible for her to foresee
how this affair or that would turn out in the end; and he bitterly
regretted that he should ever have caused her to watch him with anxiety
and misgiving. He sometimes talked this over with those who had known
her best in those days. There was the time when Nyosan first came to
live with them. Murasaki had never been openly hostile; but she had
certainly suffered very much. He remembered that snowy morning, when
coming back to their room at dawn he found that she had been weeping.
How gentle, how forbearing she had been, how she struggled to hide
from him what she was enduring! And now he lay all night long, hoping
against hope that he might so much as see her for an instant in his
dreams. ‘There’s been quite a heavy fall of snow.’ He woke up to hear
some one saying this—no doubt one of the ladies, going back to her own
quarters. More vividly than ever did he remember that other snowbound
morning, and his loneliness became unendurable. To distract himself he
dressed hastily and was soon absorbed in his devotions. Presently
the dead ashes were swept from his fire-stand, the buried flame shot
up again and burned brightly in his room. Chūnagon and Chūjō, two of
Murasaki’s ladies, were with him. ‘You may well imagine,’ he said,
‘that last night was no very good one for sleeping all alone. Why, when
every circumstance seems aimed to wean me from the world, I should
still cling to this sort of life, is more than I can explain.’ But he
was really thinking that to these ladies of hers the task of waiting
upon him did afford some small comfort, and he wondered what would
become of them when he was gone.
He had known Chūjō since she was a child, and there had at one time
been an intimacy between them. This, while Murasaki was alive, made
Chūjō very shy in Genji’s presence. But since her death, they had (on
quite different terms) again become friends. For the girl had been a
great favourite of Murasaki’s, and this reason alone sufficed to make
her dear to him; he grafted her on to his life, like the pine-tree that
grows on the green barrow of a tomb.
The princes with whom he had been most intimate, his brothers and
cousins, called constantly; but he would see none of them. For despite
all the efforts he made to get himself into a fit state for company,
months of despondency had, he felt, worked such havoc with him, that
if he were again to receive his friends, they would remember him
as he now was, and not as they had once known him. But merely to
hide would defeat his end; for if it got about that he was ashamed
to be seen, or was so broken by sorrow that he could not maintain
a rational conversation, an even worse impression might get abroad
than was warranted by the truth. And lest it should be said that he
had ended his days in decrepitude and imbecility, he began again to
admit Yūgiri and a few others to his presence. But he spoke to them
always from behind his curtains-of-state. About one thing he was
determined: he must recover himself sufficiently to meet people and
show a good face to the world before he took the final step that he was
contemplating. He attempted several times to visit the various ladies
of his household; but he found himself unable to control his grief, and
hastening home determined in future not to make any further effort to
keep in touch with the world.
The Akashi Princess was now back at the Imperial Palace; but Genji
persuaded her to let Prince Niou stay with him for a while. The child
showed a great interest in the red plum-tree in front of his room,
constantly trotting out to see that no harm came to it. His granny, he
said, had told him to. It was only the second month, and though the
flowering trees were all in bloom, they were not fully out, so that the
shimmer of the blossoms hung like a delicate mist along the boughs; and
when a nightingale began to sing in full voice upon a branch of Niou’s
tree, Genji could not refrain from coming out to listen. ‘Knows he that
she who built his shining bower hears him no more—the nightingale upon
the red plum-tree?’ So he murmured as he walked.
Spring advanced, and Murasaki’s gardens took on their wonted splendour;
but the sight of them gave him no pleasure, and indeed he longed to be
in some place far off among the mountains, so bare and desolate that
neither sight of flower nor song of bird would sharpen his sorrow.
First the globe-flower reached its glory in a tangle of dewy blossom.
Then when the single cherry had fallen and the eight-fold giant cherry
was almost over, the birch-cherry began to open, while the wistaria
was still but faintly colouring, and held all its treats in store. How
skilfully she had contrived her planting, so that wherever one turned
there were later flowers to follow those that were early over, and
others and ever more to take their place.
Little Niou, who had not yet discovered that the Nijō-in and the
New Palace[166] were separate places, cried out in delight: ‘Look, my
cherry-tree is in bloom. I know what we’ll do to prevent its losing the
flowers. We’ll put screens-of-state all round it, and then if no one
opens the flaps, the wind cannot possibly get in.’ This was certainly
a good idea, and Genji smiling asked him if he knew the poem: ‘Would
that my sleeve were wide enough to cover....’[167] ‘But yours is a much
more sensible plan,’ he added. This little prince was the only person
in whose company he now took pleasure. ‘I am afraid we shall not be
able to play together much longer,’ he now said to the child. ‘I do not
mean that I am going to die; but I shall be living at a place where we
cannot meet.’ ‘At a place where we cannot meet? That is what my granny
said too ...’ and Niou lowered his eyes.
One evening when a faint haze mingled with the fading light, Genji at
last set out to visit the Lady of Akashi. His visit took her completely
by surprise; for it was a very long while since he had been near her.
But she managed all the same to receive him in good style, and to make
so agreeable an impression that he found himself wondering whether she
were not after all the most charming person in the world. But then
there came into his face an expression, the meaning of which she was
perfectly well able to decipher: he was thinking how little she had
ever interested him compared with Murasaki, and how useless it was to
seek consolation in this or any other quarter.
‘Even during my exile at Suma,’ he said, when they had talked quietly
for a while, ‘I was already thinking of entering some monastic
retreat far away from all human habitation, and there ending my days.
And at the time there was not much reason why I should not do so.
But in my latter years a thousand ties and duties have made such a
prisoner of me that I could no longer dream of escape. But I feel
ashamed that, while it was still possible, I had not firmness enough to
take this step.’ ‘I do not think any one is likely to reproach you,’
she answered. ‘Even those whom no one would miss are often prevented
from leaving the world by ties and affections that exist only on
their side. And how much the less can you, upon whom so many persons
depend, be expected to take such a step without misgiving? I think
you are much more likely to be blamed for taking Orders in a rash and
inconsiderate manner than for continuing your present life too long.
I remember many cases of people leaving the world because they were
upset about something; but I have always considered that a very foolish
course. I feel sure you had better wait until the little princes are
older and things have been settled in a manner that will rid you of
all agitation and anxiety.’ How wise such advice sounded! ‘I fear,’ he
said, ‘that such extreme circumspection as you recommend seems to me
more culpable than any rashness.’ He talked for a while about their
own long friendship, and then said: ‘Do you remember the Spring when
Lady Fujitsubo died? Then I did indeed feel that “if the cherry-tree
had any heart, it would flower with black blossom.” I admired her for
her taste and elegance; besides, we had been brought up together as
children, so that it was natural I should feel her loss. But this is
a very different business. It is not only as a wife that I miss her.
She came to me so young, and it seemed as though we had so many years
before us.... When I consider her charm, her talents, her wit, I am
overwhelmed at the thought of what has befallen me....’
They sat talking of old times till late that night. He would
indeed have, in a way, been happy to stay there till morning. But none
the less, he went home, though he knew that this would disappoint her.
‘What a change from the Genji of old days!’ he thought, as he left her
rooms. Going straight to his day quarters he resumed his devotions,
taking no more repose than a few minutes’ rest upon his couch.
The time of the Festival[168] came round, and Genji, thinking of the
lively throngs that would soon be gathering at the Shrine, sent all
Murasaki’s people back to their families. ‘They will be disappointed
if they miss the sights,’ he said. ‘Let them go quietly home and
attend the Festival from there.’ It so happened that as Genji came
along towards the Eastern Wing he found Chūjō no Kimi taking a hurried
sleep. She rose quickly when she heard his step, and in the moment
that elapsed before she hid her face in the wide sleeve of her gown
he had time to note the liveliness of her features, the fine poise
of her head. Her hair, ruffled during her nap, spread down in a wide
tangle, as she now stood with bent head. Her trousers were red, with
faint markings in yellow. Her robe, of sombre purple, with patterns
in very dark colours, was folded all awry, and her Chinese cloak had
slipped from her shoulders. While setting herself to rights she laid
down the hollyhock[169] she had been carrying in her hand, and picking
it up Genji said: ‘What is this thing? I have positively forgotten what
they are called.’ ‘On this day of all days, when the water-plant is
set in the pot to which the God descends, can you forget the garland’s
name?’ Such was the acrostic poem with which she answered him, and he:
‘Nothing, I thought, in the wide world could tempt me. But lo, the
hollyhock has shown that in my fancy lurk treacheries unsubdued.’
During the heavy rains of the fifth month he grew weary of sitting day
after day with nothing to distract him, and towards the middle of the
month, one night when the rain had stopped and the moon appeared in
marvellous splendour between the clouds, he called Yūgiri to him. The
orange-blossom glowed in the moonlight, and an exquisite fragrance was
wafted towards them where they sat. They were hoping every moment to
hear ‘the voice that eternally revisits those changeless haunts,’[170]
when huge clouds came rolling up, rain began to pelt, and a sudden gust
of wind almost blew out the lamp. ‘I am getting used to solitude,’
he said to Yūgiri; ‘but to-night for some reason I was feeling very
lonely. My life here is certainly such that I shall be in very good
practice when I arrive at my mountain temple!’ He remembered that
Yūgiri had not been offered anything. ‘One of the ladies can bring the
fruit,’ he said. ‘We shall not require any gentlemen in attendance
to-night. They would only be a worry to us.’ Yūgiri meanwhile, watching
his father’s face, wondered whether he were really so well prepared for
the cloister as he imagined. It was clear that his thoughts were still
at every moment centred on the one subject of his loss, and this was
hardly a state of mind that promised him much success in his devotions.
But Yūgiri, who was still haunted by the glimpse of her he had caught
on that unforgettable morning, felt that he could understand his
father’s condition. ‘The anniversary will soon be here,’ he reminded
Genji. ‘Have you any instructions to give?’ ‘I do not know,’ replied
Genji, ‘that there is much point in doing anything out of the ordinary.
But I think this would be the right time to dedicate that picture of
Amitabha’s Paradise which she ordered before she died. I know that
she gave one of her chaplains full instructions about the dedication,
and if there is anything else that requires doing, you had better go to
him for advice.’ ‘I am sure we shall have no difficulty about anything
of that kind,’ answered Yūgiri, ‘for she went into all these matters
with the minutest care; indeed, if any soul ever deserved salvation,
I am sure it is hers. But what a pity it is that, dying so young, she
left behind her no real heir to her beauty and talents! It is a thing
I have always regretted....’ ‘The fault,’ said Genji, ‘lay perhaps not
so much in her destiny as in mine. Look how few children I have had
altogether! You are the one whom Fate has endowed with a fine brood
of heirs! There is no fear of your house shrinking into oblivion.’ He
knew that if the conversation turned upon the past, he might at any
moment display his weakness in a manner that he wished above all things
to avoid. Suddenly the long expected voice of the Cuckoo came to his
rescue, and with singular appropriateness he quoted the poem, ‘How can
the Cuckoo have known?’
Come you in quest of her that is no more, O Cuckoo,
Who through the drenching rain did hurry from your hill?
So Genji now sang, and Yūgiri answered him: ‘Search rather in your
Dark Land,[171] O Cuckoo, and tell her that the tree she planted is in
bloom.’
Yūgiri remained at his father’s disposition all night; and it gave him
a strange sensation to move without restraint in these quarters which,
during Murasaki’s lifetime, had been surrounded by so much mystery.
During the Gosechi dancing[172] that year Yūgiri’s two older boys acted
as pages at the Court. They were about the same height, and looked
very pretty together. Kurōdo and his brothers,[173] who had been chosen
to act as heralds at the Tasting of the New Rice and were wearing the
magnificent blue-printed robes of their office, took charge of the boys
and introduced them into the Presence. What, Genji asked himself as he
watched the boys, lay behind that wondering and innocent expression?
And once more he vividly recalled the little Gosechi dancer who had
caught his own fancy years ago.
As the day drew near when his present life of seclusion in the midst of
the Court was to reach its close, he spent his time chiefly in going
through his possessions and deciding what was to become of them after
his departure. Much of his property he now dispersed in a succession
of small gifts, avoiding any such considerable transference as would
excite attention; for up till now his retainers knew nothing of the
disaster that awaited them. But it was known that his heart was set
upon retirement, and they awaited the turn of the year with great
apprehension.
One task that now devolved upon him was the destruction of letters such
as it would be embarrassing to leave behind. Many he had torn up long
ago; but often he had put a letter aside meaning to destroy it, and
then had never brought himself to do so. Now, as opportunity offered,
he took them out a few at a time, and went through them carefully.
Among those that he had received at Suma, most of which he now tore up
or threw away, there were a lot of Murasaki’s letters carefully tied
up in a bundle. It must indeed have been he himself who did up the
packet, though so long a time had passed that he had no recollection of
doing so. The ink was as fresh as on the day when they were written,
and looked as if it would remain so for hundreds of years. But what
was the use of such a keepsake? He could not take it with him....
He sent for two or three of the ladies with whom she had been most
intimate and began handing them the letters, one after another, to
tear up. But soon, while he held the letters, his tears flowed so fast
upon each page that fresh tracks were added to those the pen had made,
and at last, unwilling to display his weakness, he pushed the bundle
of letters away from him, reciting as he did so the verse: ‘So longs
my heart for her that past the Hill of Death is gone, not even upon
the tracks she left can I endure to gaze.’[174] The ladies did not,
of course, unfold the pages that were handed to them; but they caught
sight of a phrase here and there—sufficient to tell them what the
letters were; and it was with a pang that they now destroyed them. They
remembered several of those letters being written. And if then, when
she and Genji were separated only by a few miles and there was every
prospect of their soon meeting again, Murasaki’s misery had been such
as they well remembered, could they wonder that now the sight of them
was more than he could bear?
He took one from the bundle, and without stopping to read it, he wrote
in the margin: ‘Go, useless leaves, well steeped in brine, to join the
smoke that through the pathways of the sky trailed from her smouldering
pyre’; and forthwith he had the whole lot burnt.
He celebrated the Festival of Buddha’s Names[175] with unusual
solemnity, for he knew that it was the last he would see in his palace.
Never had been heard such jangling of shakujō[176] as on those nights.
It was strange to hear the priests repeating the usual prayer that
he ‘might long enjoy his present high estate,’ and he hoped that the
Lord Buddha would know how far this prayer was removed from his
real desires. Snow lay deep on the ground and was still falling. When
the services were over, he sent for the leader of the procession, and
having gone through the usual forms of handing him the wine-cup and so
on, made handsome presents to all who had taken part in the ceremony.
The leader had for years past been employed at the Imperial Palace;
he had been well known to the Old Emperor,[177] and Genji noted with
emotion how grey the old man’s head had grown in the service of his
family.
There was the usual levée of princes and courtiers. On a few plum-trees
there was already a faint hint of blossom, all the lovelier for the
snow that lay heaped upon their boughs. There should have been feasting
and music in the palace; but even this year his grief still stifled
in him all desire for song, and he arranged that only a few Chinese
verses, appropriate to the season, should be recited at his levée.
But I had forgotten to mention the poem he made when he handed the
wine-cup to the head priest. It was as follows: ‘Who knows in winter
if the spring time he shall see? Wait not for blossom, but take the
budding spray and wear it at your brow.’ ‘For nought else have I
prayed, save that a thousand spring-tides you might see; till silver
snow has blossomed on my brow.’ So the priest replied, and many other
poems were made, which need not be here recorded.
This was the first occasion since Murasaki’s death upon which Genji had
mingled with his guests. They thought him more beautiful than ever, and
the aged priest could not refrain from tears of joy.
Remembering that this was the end of the year, little Niou went
scampering about saying every one must do something to scare away
the demons, and asking what noise he might make. In a few days Genji
would see the child no more; and sadly he recited the verse: ‘Whilst I
in heedless grief have let the days go by, together now the year and my
own life are ebbing to their close.’ He gave orders that the New Year
ceremonies should be performed with more than usual splendour, and saw
to it that the princes and Court officers who came to the palace should
receive such presents and bounties as never before.[178]
[166] Genji’s old palace (where Murasaki died) and the New Palace in
the Sixth Ward, where the child now was.
[167] ‘Would that my sleeve were wide enough to cover the spaces of the
sky; then should the wind no longer at his pleasure scatter the flowers
in Spring.’—Anon.
[168] The Kamo Festival in the fourth month.
[169] Worn by worshippers at the Kamo Festival. Its name also means
‘day of meeting,’ and there is a play on this in both poems.
[170] The cuckoo.
[171] The cuckoo is called Headman of the Hill of Death.
[172] In the eleventh month.
[173] Younger sons of Tō no Chūjō.
[174] _Ato_ means ‘tracks’ and also ‘handwriting.’
[175] On the 21st, 22nd and 23rd of the twelfth month.
[176] The long, priest’s begging-staff, with metal rings attached to
the top.
[177] Genji’s father.
[178] The next chapter begins with the words: ‘After Prince Genji’s
death....’
Transcriber’s Notes
1. Italicised words are indicated by _underscores_.
2. Footnotes have been renumbered and moved to the end of each
chapter.
3. Misspelled and missing words have been corrected (see below).
Archaic, inconsistent and alternative spellings have been left
unchanged. Hyphenation has not been standardised.
4. Punctuation has been silently corrected.
5. Ellipsis placement has been modified in order to facilitate text
reflow. In most cases ellipses between sentences have been merged
with the closing punctuation of the preceding sentence. Ellipses
between words within a sentence have had spaces added before
and after.
6. “Edit Distance” in Corrections table below refers to the
Levenshtein Distance.
Corrections:
Page Source Correction Edit distance
122 twelth month twelfth month 1
321 XII CHAPTER XII 8
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